


Dragstrip Courage

by I_AM_KING_DAD



Series: Dragstrip Courage [1]
Category: Gravity Falls, Rick and Morty
Genre: Age Difference, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bar Room Brawl, Blood, Blow Jobs, Brass knuckles, Bribery, Car Accidents, Car Chases, Cigarettes, Cocaine, Crossover Pairings, Dimension Travel, Dubious Consent, Established Relationship, Extremely Dubious Consent, Facials, Hand Jobs, Heavy Drinking, Humiliation, M/M, More Cigarettes Hahaha, Mullet Grunkle Stan, Past Character Death, Porn With Plot, Reacharounds, Recreational Drug Use, Road Trips, Romantic Face Punching, Smoking, Unsafe Sex, Verbal Abuse, cigarette burns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-22
Updated: 2016-04-20
Packaged: 2018-05-28 10:01:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 22,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6324721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/I_AM_KING_DAD/pseuds/I_AM_KING_DAD
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the events before Ford beckons him up to Gravity Falls, Stanley Pines finds himself running into a familiar face in New Mexico.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [35minutesago](https://archiveofourown.org/users/35minutesago/gifts).



> This is chapter one of a multi-part butterfly-effect concept series.
> 
> **I don't condone real-life relationships like this. If you find yourself in any type of similar situation, please seek help out of it. That being said, this is porn. Just really, detailed porn of characters already known to be sociopaths. You knew what you signed up for when you read the tags! Please enjoy!!**

The heat in New Mexico had finally died down as the sun sank lower and lower on the horizon. Stanley Pines didn’t particularly care for the oppressive weather, but this was one of the few states he was not banned in. He wanted to travel further up north, but he couldn’t just leave because he owed money to an incredibly ornery cartel member whose henchman could show up within a moment’s notice, and depart like ghosts. You could turn up missing and no one would be able to find the body. Not that Stanley thought anyone could go looking for him. It was an incredibly tricky spot to be in, as he had dealt with these types of criminals before; at this moment, he didn’t feel like he had the fight within him to run.

The motel room was cheaply furnished, and filled to the brim with product. Luckily, the apathetic staff didn’t offer room service, and Stan couldn’t remember the last time they came in to clean anything. There was a tell-tale stench of masculine musk, industrial packaging, and cheap cologne that remained a constant since he arrived a month earlier. Stanley didn’t have the wherewithal to clean the place up by himself, and there was no way he would take some unfortunate woman to this room for a bit of fun at the end of the night. He didn’t even have booze or hooker money as it was. The man, apathetic and slightly defeated, scratched at his stomach while lying on his bed, looking at a drip stain on the ceiling. The night was becoming calm – it was nearly silent outside except for a small breeze that fluttered through the cracks in the cheap door frame. He was almost asleep; his eyes lowered, heavy and fatigued. Sleep was the only thing that could take him away from this nightmare of a lifestyle he lived. A loud humming sound disrupted that relief.

The bed shook, and that was enough for Stanley, a pretty light sleeper, wide awake. He rubbed some of the crust from his eyes that he hadn’t cared to wipe away this morning, and looked discreetly from the blinds. No, his car was still there, and he didn’t see any new cars. There did seem to be an eerie light coming from somewhere out of the left periphery. It was enough to make Stan get up, grab the ice bucket, and quietly exit his room to see what was going on. If anything, it was still too hot to sleep and the ice would definitely help him cool off.

He felt that he needed to sneak around at this point; you never know when one of those goons could just turn around the corner. Stan reached the filthy ice machine, scooping the bucket inside, and looking over at a punched Cola machine, flickering green. Maybe that’s what the sound was. Shrugging, he was half-lidded again, the night breeze hitting his sweat-drenched face was a little better than the stagnant air in his room, even if the temperature wasn’t as cool as he’d like it to be. Free and clear to return to his room, he turned the corner from the little enclave holding the machines and hit flesh. Right into a very tall, thin man who cursed immediately upon impact. The bucket shook, and a quarter of the contents spilled out and onto both of them, “Wh-wha what was that for? Watch where y-you-errrrr going,” the voice slurred and shoved two hands at his chest. The voice sounded oddly familiar, but the angle at which they were standing shed absolutely no light on the man’s features. Stan moved back a bit, recoiling at the incredibly weak shove.

“Uh – sorry, pal,” he put his hand up, as a half-hearted attempt at apologizing.

“Y-yeah that’s what I thought,” the veiled man stepped forward, moving to turn to the vending machine Stan just left. Stan knew exactly who this visibly sloshed man was. The slicked back hair with the bluish hue? The filthiest lab coat you can imagine? It had to be him.

“Sanchez?” Stanley asked in disbelief. He had to readjusted the bucket so he didn’t almost drop it again.

“H-how do y-you-“ Rick sneered, eyes bloodshot as he looked the man up and down trying to get some kind of idea who this joker was. The sneer began to fade, the scientist’s spittle-covered mouth opening almost in disbelief, and then what appeared to be genuine delight, “S-Stan PINES!? THE STANLEY PINES?” his eyebrows raised.

Both of them stood for a moment in utter disbelief. This was a long way from where they last met up. The groans of disbelief turned into cries of laughter when everything finally registered. Rick put an arm around Stanley as they were walking toward the room, “W-well wh-what are we doing here? Let’s get this party started!”  
Stan looked around the parking lot one last time in a small haze of paranoia, and the nodded, “Yeah – I gotta room just over here!” he quickly opened the door, and ushered the other man in.

“W-w-woooow, Pines. Y-you were n-never one to not pull out all the stops,” he seemed to be sobering up, the clear dig spoken in a rather jocular tone made Stan smirk. The company was nice, no matter how degrading Rick could be. Frankly, that type of speech directed toward him was definitely something he was used to.  
Rick Sanchez always had a way of showing up at the most inappropriate times, it was nearly uncanny. Since he divorced his wife without a shred of notice, he now always seemed to be drunk. The smell of beer hung around him in an invisible cloud that never seemed to clear. Not that Stanley minded, he was not one to smell like a rose, as he was constantly living in dirty motels or his car. Rick began to circle the room, looking for something, anything, and then he found it. A wall outlet. He shoved a very different plug, which had an outlet attachment into the socket that caused a small spark, and then hooked up the apparatus in such a way where it looked like a modern charging station. Stan’s eyes bulged.

“What the hell is that?” he pointed over.

Rick sighed, putting the tip of his right index finger and thumb to the bridge of his nose resting in between his eyes, “I-it’s something I invented. I-I-I call it a portal gun. I don’t expect you to understand, but basically I can travel anywhere I want with it, but it’s running out of juice and –“

“Juice? What?” This was obviously too far of an advanced technology for Stan to understand.

“Just humor m-me when I say i-it’s not going to m-make this tinde-uuuuuurp box go up in flames.” He kicked a package at his foot.

Stan shrugged. He might as well just trust Rick—even though he knew the man was going to do whatever he wanted anyway. Sitting down with a dull thud on the bed, he looked over at the disgruntled scientist continue to fiddle with it. He reached down next to the bed and pulled out two warm beers, “Hey Rick – you want a beer?”  
“I-I- neeeever thought y-you’d ask,” he sounded relieved and held his hand up to catch it. Stan tossed it over, and without looking, Rick was able to catch it. The tab was pulled, and Rick began to thirstily drink from the can. With a long burp at the end, he threw the can on the ground and looked over, “Always can count on Pines to-urrrrrp-to be a beacon of hospitality,” at this point he couldn’t help but smirk, “Sorry Stan, I-I-I sometimes forget h-how to talk to humans.”

The last comment was absolutely casual, and Stan quirked an eyebrow. Sanchez must be going off his rocker, he thought to himself, and lobbed another beer toward Rick, always able to catch it no matter what he was fiddling with over there. That beer was downed too, and Stan figured, he might as well drink, and popped a tab open for himself. He felt the warm beer was easier to swig, even though it wasn’t a pleasant refreshment from the heat. Rick had already downed his second, he was currently drinking from a flask and finishing up rummaging around the room. Stan didn’t feel like saying anything at this moment, he knew how Rick got when he was in this type of mood.

The alcohol seemed to be working for Rick. He seemed a bit calmer. A newly drooled smile played at his lips, hands shoved in his pockets and he stood still, “Sooo w-what are you up to in –“ he looked around for some kind of clue as to which state they were even in and noticed a pack of matches with the hotel name, “Newww Mexico. Runnin’ from th-the law again Andrew ‘8 Ball’ Alcatraz?” he sniggered.

Stan grunted and sat up and rolled his eyes, “You could say that,”

“H-how many states y-you banned errrrrp-iiiin now?”

His little map was in his car. Almost every state except the West Coast, he lost count. He snorted an exhale that was too tired to be a laugh or chuckle. Placing the now empty beer can on his forehead for coolness, he cursed as the can was useless without its contents. Then he remembered he got an ice bucket. Normally, he would just stick his face in it, and that’s what he planned to do. Grabbing it, he lowered his face towards the bucket.

“C-can’t take a little h-hreeeeeeat Stanley?” he shook his head, laughing and finishing from his flask, “Is there some liquor in here? Like a, like a mini-bar or something ol’ b-buuhhhdy, ol’ pal?” Ricks burps were garbling his speech a bit, which didn’t seem to annoy Stan as much while he was drinking his second beer. He pointed to the cabinet in the corner.

Rick clapped his hands together, rubbing his palms and walking over to the cabinet. He picked an old green bottle without a label, “Yeaaaah!” he chuckled and pulled a cork out of the top, taking a long gulp. Stan crushed his second beer can on his head, still staring straight at Rick.  
“So, why are you here in New Mexico? Looking for some science-y…” he trailed off and rotated his right hand in a circle to help coax the words from his mouth, “…thing?” Stan wasn’t the most articulated man.

Not looking over at him, Rick checked his “portal gun”, or whatever that was, and said, “M-miscalculation.”

Oh. So he took a wrong turn. He let out a grunt of acknowledgement. Stan didn’t feel like being degraded for asking anything further. He knew he wasn’t the smartest man in the world, but he was clever. At least he had that going for him. Stan was now on his third beer and starting to feel the alcohol a little bit, but since it was a special occasion he felt like he could add a little bit extra to the party. There was a nightstand next to the bed, and he opened up the little draw to take out a small baggy of generic-looking white pills of hydrocodone. He popped one in his mouth, and swigged it down with the last of the third. Rick had almost finished his bottle and was still drinking from it when he made his way over to Stan.

“Anything good on?” he muttered, sitting on the edge of the bed next a little bit away from Stan. Rick took it upon himself to turn a battered looking television on across the room, but it was the most basic programming anyone could get. Just a couple of news stations and a movie channel. Rick put it on an old black-and-white war film and rolled his eyes, “Shh-sheeeez, what a downer.”

“It’s not so bad,” Stan shrugged and waited for his little pill to take effect, “Gimme some of that booze, Sanchez,” he grabbed for the bottle. Rick shrugged and relinquished it, going over to the cabinet and getting another bottle, of what appeared to be whiskey. Stan went to put the bottle to his lips and realized Rick drank it all. Dick. He sneered and dropped the bottle to the floor. Soon, Rick was back with another bottle.

“Y-ya know, these war movies aren’t as aaaaaaaaaaccurate,” he let out another burp, “as y-you think, Pines,” ‘Pines’ punctuated the sentence harshly, and looked over at Stan, taking in what he saw. It had been a while. Stan had gained a little weight since he last saw him, and what was that on the back of his neck? “Wait a second,” he laughed.

Stanley looked over at Rick and rolled his eyes, “I know,” he muttered under his breath. Seriously, did everyone just think he was stupid? His cheeks flushed from what he thought was the alcohol, but there was something else to it. Something that seeped into the corners of his eyes, giving a lightly hazy glow to the room. That pill finally kicked in, and Stan visibly relaxed.

“Is that a muh-muh-mullet!?” Rick cackled, and loosely grabbed the hair in his right fist, twirling the sweaty strands betwixt his fingers.  
Stan tried to pull away, but his head was stuck where it was, “Yeah it is! You got a problem, buddy? I don’t have a whole lot of money to be spending on fancy hair cuts, y’know,” he narrowed his eyes at Rick.

“Oooh, th-there’s the Stan I-I like to see,” Rick flashed his teeth at Stan, “Y-y’know,” this sentence began extra visciously, “you seem to have plenty of money for alcohol and pills,” his head motioned to the door, “Sh-sharing is ca-caring, pal.”

Stan sighed, and without turning his head to look at Rick, he grabbed the pills from the nightstand and handed him one. Rick immediately threw it into his mouth and drank it down with the whiskey. He burped, and let go of his mullet. Stan rubbed the back of his neck and put the pills away. The pain was definitely dulled, and the heat from his cheeks spread across his face in a pleasant flood of relief. Rick’s teasing almost seemed entirely bearable. He was content, for now.  
Halfway through his liquor bottle, Rick seemed to relax considerably too. His words slurred a little more when he spoke, but Stan didn’t mind. He could only half hear him as he continued to make fun of the soldiers and explosions on screen. Stan picked himself up, and scooted toward to where the wall met the bed, to prop himself up. Rick looked behind him, and followed suit. There was an extended silence between the two. Rick’s eyebrows were knit together in thought. So much so, that it looked like it probably hurt. Stan tried to focus on the television, his heartbeat pounding in his throat and ears.

“Y-you still…” Rick trailed off and inched a little closer to Stan. It was almost imperceptible, “You still, you know,” he laughed. Stan could smell the mix of liquors on his breath.

He wrinkled his nose a bit and replied, “Still what?”

Rick didn’t seem in the mood to be concise or forthright, but continued to inch toward him. Soon, they were sitting so close, legs touched. Stan wasn’t used to people sitting so close, “y-you know ex-urrraccctly what I mean, Pines, don’t play dumb.”

It had been a long time. What, five years? Six? Now all of a sudden Rick comes back and he wants to pick up where they left off? Well, there wasn’t much to leave off from. Know that Rick Sanchez left at a moment’s notice for indeterminable amounts of time, this would probably be the only time he would be with him for a while. He might as well continue to enjoy himself, right? “Uh-yeah I mean, I guess so,” he coughed, his voice felt gruff. Dull memories began to push themselves forward in his head. He had absolutely nothing to lose. He didn’t have a home, family, anything. He just had Rick, from time to time. Maybe sometimes a casual female companion, but that was so rare…

“Great,” Rick replied with a smirk, and turned his head to stare at Stan. In the darkness, Stan side-eyed him and could see a glint of his teeth, Rick’s face was shadowy from the erratic lighting of the television. Outside, the sun was down, and only a few of the lights in the parking lot worked. The light outside his door flickered and buzzed. Rick never kept his eyes off Stan, who seemed to be in a world of his own, but Rick had plans to fix that soon. His right hand reached up to touch the brunette’s temple, which was drenched in sweat, and gently dragged the fingers to his chin, and holding him there. Stanley could not help but look at this point, he could have moved his head away, Rick didn’t have him in a death grip, but he didn’t want to.

He pulled Stan closer, not moving himself. Their lips met, but there was a difference in this kiss than the others they had shared. It was tender, and soft. Stanley didn’t think Rick had the ability to be so gentle. Little kisses soon evolved into a something a little more passionate. Rick’s whole body was turned now to face Stan, and both hands were now clutching his face with an uncharacteristic tenderness. It confused Stan. Not that this was a problem, most of the kisses that they shared almost felt like they were battling with their teeth and tongues. This felt more like a dance. Stan parted his lips, and sighed into the kiss, willingly pressing forward, and turning his body more. A tongue, instead of its usual intrusion, gently outlined his lower lip in response to the sigh. Rick made a noise of approval when their tongues met, lolling over each other lazily. (Stan couldn’t remember the last time he kissed someone like that.) The kiss was over in what seemed like to Stan a minute, and though it was over, Rick didn’t move a muscle from where he was. Looking at the clock to gauge the time, they had been kissing for ten minutes. His head fluttered, the haze spreading in his vision, making the room look like an excerpt out of an erotic fever dream.

Rick, now kneeling on the bed next to Stan whose body was now twisted to turn to him, put a hand on his shoulder and pushed. Unaware that this would happen, Stan let out a confused grunt and fell to his side, his legs lifted from the floor a couple of inches. Rick set to work lifting his legs, so that Stan was now laying down on the bed fully. Rick grabbed Stanley’s white button-up and pulled himself up to straddle him, “H-erooooow do you like them apples?” he grinned, looking down. Stan liked those apples very much. He felt almost paralyzed by what was happening. No point in saying no now, right? He couldn’t say no even if he tried. The heat that was on his face had moved down to his chest and his inner most thighs. His whole body sweat uncomfortably-he just wanted to get these clothes off, it was like New Mexico was torturing him. “Y-youueerrrr not gonna answer? M-man, you’re a lightweight,” he was snapped back to the reality of the situation. Rick was now sitting on his chest, looking him straight in his glazed eyes. The slicked back hair had become messier now, his face dripping with sweat and probably drool, eyes narrowed in disapproval, “I-I-I’ve got somethin’ that’ll wake you up.”

Stan was oblivious as to what that meant; even though it would be perfectly obvious sober. Rick, although far drunker, was the one in charge. He always had been, sometimes allowing Stan to take the lead once in a while, but Stan didn’t have the imagination Rick did, and that was something he craved from him. Rick fumbled with his belt buckle, swearing under his breath and pulled his blue shirt from his pants. Once the button and zipper were down, he pulled pants and briefs down, allowing his half-hard cock freedom. Stan’s eyes widened, squirming underneath Rick, but Rick’s right hand flew down, gripping the other man by the shirt, “Ah, ah, ah…” with a surprising amount of strength, he pulled the brunette to sit up a little, his dick now in his face, “Th-this isn’t y-your first rERRRRoooodeo, y-you know what to do,” he nudged the member up to his lips, thumb rubbing over the head.

It wasn’t, but frankly, Stan was rusty. Once Rick’s dick was to his lips, he felt compelled to wrap his lips around the head. His tongue swireled around the head, “Th-thaaaat’s it,” Rick cooed, his hand moving from his shirt, now on Stan’s face, but this time, it wasn’t nice like the kiss. His fingernails dragged across Stan’s face, and gripped his chin again, tightly. Rick began to push himself further, and Stanley had to accommodate. He felt a little embarrassed, his eyes darting to look away. Rick’s dick, which wasn’t something to scoff at, continued to be enveloped until the tip hit the back of Stan’s throat. Stan inhaled the smell of saliva on genitalia, a musky aroma, and exhaled through his nose, attempting to keep himself from gagging. Rick, who noticed that Stan was looking toward the television, took his thumb, and jabbed the orbital under the brunette’s eye hard, “Look at m-me,” he glowered. 

Stanley growled as his orbital was jabbed. This seemed to illicit a positive response from Rick, who stated, once their gaze met again, “Oh, th-that’s fine, you can keep doing that. Feels gooood,” and with a sadistic grin, he bucked his hips so the hilt hit Stan’s lips. He let out another disapproving growl, and kept his eyes on the other man’s. His head bobbed slowly, taking his time at first, trying to get used to the feeling again. Saliva pooled under his tongue, flooding the area and causing spittal to run down his chin in strands. This only encouraged the man. He grabbed Stanley by the mullet, and roughly pulled him forever, while pumping his hips. Stan reached up to swat his hand away in protest, but Rick grabbed it with his free hand, and dug his nails into the knuckles of his balled up fist. Crying out, Stan jerked his fist back, but Rick pulled away from him for a brief moment, lifted his leg up, and put his arms by his side. Clamping his legs down to keep his arms stationary, he resituated himself, Rick wiped Stan’s chin with a stray thumb, “Again,” and proceeded to gleefully fuck Stan’s throat with abandoned, despite his protests. It wasn’t that Stan didn’t enjoy it. He had a lot of pride. Right now, no pride was to be found, and the vulnerability spread to his groin quickly.

“Urrrrrrgh-yeaaaah, Pines, you’re doing great,” he slapped Stan’s face absently, “You already, y-you already got me,” Rick’s mind felt like it was searing in a pan. His speech stumbled into pleasured slurs, his head occasionally thrown back. He pulled harder on Stan’s mullet, his sheer strength made the man question whether or not he would even have hair left after this, it was yanked so hard. Stan’s tongue massaged the underside of Rick’s cock, groaning every time Rick spoke, any time he made an approving noise. At this point, his jaw began to ache dully, far off in the haze of the painkiller. He hoped that Rick would finish soon; his mouth was going to ache like hell in the morning. Rick’s thrusts had become erratic, his breathing ragged in heavy. The sheer force of his hips caused his balls to slap Stan’s chin, which only added to the unpleasant aspects for Stan, but he felt his own cock begin to stiffen from the humiliation he felt.

Rick looked down at Stan, struggling to continue to suck him. He was being a great sport. Rick let go of Stan’s hair, as a show of mercy, but gripped his face with both hands, fingers pressing against the soft underside of his jaw, a thumb wheedled its way into Stan’s mouth as well, drawing more saliva out and letting it drip drown messily, “Fffffuuuuu,” he grumbled, and without warning to Stan, pulled out of his mouth. His own hand pumped his shaft as he came thick globs of spunk in Stan’s face and hair. He didn’t bother to aim, except when he heard Stanley bark, “Jesus!” he directed his spurts toward his mouth. Rick immediately rubbed a drop off remaining semen off his dick with a thumb, and stuck it in his mouth, “Th-that was great, Stanl-EEEEEE you really, you really are a pal,”

Stan wasn’t sure what to do at this point. Would it be uncouth to punch him as hard as he could? Rick was busy pulling his pants up, humming happily to himself like nothing had happened previously. That he wasn’t such a horrible dick just then. Stan tried to push him off so he could clean up, “Wh-where you goin’?” he laughed, and pushed Stan back down, “We-we’re just getting started!” and laughed, continuing to focus on his pants.

“C’mon, Rick,” he wiped his eye, a bit of cum had landed on his left lid and brow.

“No, no, I insist,” he continued to laugh, and tugged at the other man’s pants.

“Just let me-“ he pushed Rick off him, and he landed with a thud on the bed, “clean up…” he trailed off as he stumbled over to the bathroom.

Rick had shouted, “Spoil sport!” but Stan had already shut the door. He looked in the mirror at his reflection. His lips were puffy and swollen. It looked like some small bruises formed along the underside of his jaw. Not like it mattered, he wasn’t the greatest salesman, and this dirty Mullet wasn’t his bread and butter. He splashed some water on his face, his cheeks flushed with anger more so than alcohol anymore. The water felt great on his face, cool and refreshing. He scrubbed himself as clean as he could, and walked straight back out to the room. Rick was already laying on the bed, facing the wall, presumably in repose for the night.

Stan sat down on the edge of the bed and stayed there. He called Rick’s bluff, he wasn’t sleeping, and he wasn’t going to let him just fall asleep like that, “Wh-what is it?” Rick grunted without turning to face him.

“You know you got a lot of nerve coming in here,” he made a gesture toward the room, “and taking advan-“ Rick turned around and cut him short with just one bored look.

“I get it,” he mouthed exaggeratedly like he was talking to someone who didn’t speak English. He rolled his eyes and sat up on his elbows, pulling Stan by the back of the collar so he was leaning up against the wall, “Well,” he started to move so he was sitting cross-legged now and motioned, aggravated at his pants, “Let’s see i-iiiiit.”

Stan suddenly felt a similar reaction like stage fright. His hands shook, and he eagerly tugged at the button of his pants, but he wasn’t making much progress. Rick became increasingly more irate, “Gotta…gotta do everything myself,” he took over for Stan, freeing his cock from its cloth imprisonment impressively fast. Though not as long as Rick’s Stanley’s penis was of an impressive girth, “Oh,” Rick muttered as he grabbed it callously, “I forgot we live in a day and age where people don’t get their kids circumcised,” he snorted and made a face that was meant to say that he was just kidding, but Stan was not amused. He pumped his hand up and down the length to get him at full erection, which assisted with pulling the foreskin back. Rick leaned over Stan and continued to jack him off, idly, begrudgingly, boredly. It was driving Stan insane.

It also wasn’t getting him anywhere. The combination of alcohol and pills seemed to have a paralyzing affect on him. Even though he was turned on, he just couldn’t cum, “Liquor dick,” he muttered.

Rick’s ire grew, “Y-you’re telling me I-I-I’m gonna waste my time jerking you off?” he almost shouted. Stan was taken aback, but this inconvenience dripping from Rick’s voice stirred something in him, and it was noticed, “Wait wh-what is th-this,” he chuckled, increasing his pace a little bit, “Y-y-y-y-y-you c-can’t get off without mEEEEE making fun of you? Wh-what the Hell happened you, Pines? Are you one of those, one of those guys that pays a ton of money for women to st-eeeeeer-p on them?” his laughter was becoming more mocking, more lurid. This only seemed to push Stan toward the edge. He gripped the edge of the bed tightly, biting his lower lip, “I-I-I’ve had some, some sad fucks in my li-“ Rick continued on, but the blood had rushed to Stan’s ears and he couldn’t he could only hear his heartbeat rattling in his chest. Letting out one last growl of a moan, he came hard. Rick found this to be incredibly amusing, catching it in his hands and scoffing all the way to the bathroom. Taken aback, Stanley collapsed onto his side, basking for a moment in the painkiller-laced afterglow of his orgasm. After a few moments, and realizing that Rick was now taking a shower, he pulled his pants up and laid onto the bed, staring once again at the drip stains in the ceiling.  
There was a knock at the door.

In a panic, he reached under the bed for his baseball bat, and yelled, “Rico! I’ll pay your goons back, I swear!”

But nothing happened. Something slipped through the mail slot.


	2. The Stanco Charm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We learn that Rick may be using Stan for more nefarious purposes as they drive through New Mexico to Utah. Stan uses his salesman charm to get out of a pickle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will most definitely be a third chapter, and it'll get even heavier.

After a night of fitful sleep, Stan decided to approach Rick regarding the situation with his brother. He didn’t know why Stanford needed him, but he felt it would be a perfect opportunity to make up for missed time. For once in a long while he felt hopeful for his future. He relayed his want to go visit his brother in Oregon. Long drives alone were awful; Stan enjoyed company and was open to the idea of Rick coming, but didn’t want to relay it to him, which just wasn’t the person he was. He hoped the other would pick it up on his own.

Rick Sanchez had no interest in the idea of Stan going up to a rinky-dink town in the middle of nowhere. He considered for a moment the possibility of offering to take him to another dimension where they could con a whole planet if they wanted to. It was just a delightful thought. Rick had no intentions of demonstrating the capabilities of his portal gun to Stanley. He didn’t think Stan could handle the explanations, no matter how dumbed down he made it. That’s not what he had signed up for. He contemplated whether or not it had enough power to get him out of here, but he wanted some answers from Stanley first. He stood, arms crossed and angled toward the bed where Stan lay. “Y-you’re going,” it was more of scoffed statement rather than a question.

“I gotta go, Rick, he’s my brother!” 

“W-what has your brother ever done for you?” the rage in his voice built in the back of his throat, thick and venomous, “I-I-If you haven’t noticed your family hasn’t been the most supporting of your, of your lifestyle here.” He uncrossed his arms to gesture the surroundings.

“There’s nothing here for me. I’m going. You don’t have to come,” Stan furrowed his brow, sat up, and began to carelessly grab what he deemed necessary into a large blue duffle bag.

Rick let out a mocking laugh, “Ohhh, so, so y-y-y-ou want me to meet the family already, huh?” he flashed his teeth in a sneer, “I’m not sure good old Fordsy would approve.”

Stan rolled his eyes and emptied the contents of the nightstand into the bag, “It’s not like that, you know it, I was just offering you a ride if you didn’t already have one.”

“Wh-what’s the name of the town again?” Rick eyed the postcard lying on the bed.

“Gravity Falls, why?”

For a brief moment Rick raised his eyebrows in recognition. He had definitely heard of that place before, there were stories of vast anomalies and it would be interesting to see if he could find something he could potentially make a profit out of. It was not just that, however. Rick, in his heart of hearts, felt no romantic love for Stan. There was a deep urge to keep constant tabs on him. He harbored a great deal of possessiveness and did happen to follow him through the years. This was no chance meeting, Rick had carefully planned out his trip there. The portal gun being exceptionally low on power, was one obstacle he did not forsee, as he was too lazy to charge it previously. If Rick travelled with him up to Gravity Falls he could scratch the itch Stan had metaphorically given him along the way, and he would know where to find him later. Knowing that the town was incredibly small and in the middle of nowhere was another reason Rick seemed to be pleased with the isolated arrangement, “M-maybe we ca-can pull a couple of scams…like old times?”

Stan was genuinely surprised Rick took any interest. He had finished packing while Rick had paused to think, “You sure you wanna go?”

“M-Might as well, I’ve got nothing better to do for a while,” at the time, he would actually prefer to lay low. 

“Well then help me pack, you gotta pull your weight,” he grunted, lifting up a box to take to the car. 

Rick grabbed his portal gun and noticed it wasn’t as charged as he would have liked it. Oh well. It was enough to get him away when he needed it. There was one more reason that Rick felt the need to be around Stan. Whenever he was around him, there was something that offset their personality so much so that if he was on the run, it would be incredibly difficult for the other Ricks or authorities to find him. It was imperative that the man huffing over lugging boxes to his car be near him until the heat could die down. Rick stooped over and grabbed a few things, in the spirit of the mission, and for once carried pleasant conversation. He had everything right where he wanted it. 

They didn’t take everything with them, the room was trashed. Stan didn’t bother to check out, he had no plans of ever returning to Mexico, and he had gone through the motions of creating a new identity for himself in every state wasn’t worried about consequences that he knew how to avoid. The last thing Rick took from the room was the last of the liquor. He made a curt mention they needed to stop at a gas station at some point, because he would be damned to be stuck in a car that smelled like body odor and Chinese food without something to numb the mental anguish of a 20 hour drive. Stanley obliged, and after hurried trip to the gas station, they were on the highway bound for the reclusive Ford. 

Rick attempted to lean backward in his seat; however there was so much garbage in the back of the car. The passenger side was shifted forward so much so Rick felt like his knees were up to his chest.   
He grunted, and took a swig from a bottle, “Such a, such a majestic ride, Stanley, y-you know you really know how to travel in comfort and style,” his voice dripped with disdain.

Fingers were now white-knuckling the steering wheel, “Will you back it off?” he said through gritted teeth, eyes still on the road, but painfully attempting some kind of glare through the periphery, “It’s all I’ve got.” 

“Alright, alright,” Rick responded, taking another long gulp out of the bottle that was in his lap. Finishing it, he debated whether to throw it in the back with the rest of the garbage, or to toss it out the window. He looked around for police—nothing. Just desert stretched before them. He cranked the window down and threw the bottle out with a shatter on the dusty road.

“Hey!!” 

“Wh-what’s gonna happen Stanley, are the, are the feds gonna come and get us? For littering?”

It was the last time that Stan was going to stick up for himself. Rick was a difficult man to deal with, and impossible to argue with if one did not have the intellect to match wits with him. At least Stan could outpunch him sometimes. He shifted in his seat, “Gimme a cigarette. Glove compartment,”

“So tough, Pines,” he kept his eyes on the driver and reached into the glove compartment, patting around until he found the pack. Popping the cigarette lighter, he was able to set it aflame for Stanley, shoving it in his mouth without warning, “H-heeere you go,”

Stan let go of the wheel with one hand, adjusted the cigarette in his mouth, and took a long drag. He sat in quiet thought, not letting himself be distracted from the road. Every once in a while he took a moment to flick the ash out opened window. Rick sat turned slightly so that his back was more toward the door, and he watched the brunette smoke with a vague sense of interest. There was something to his desperate puffs that made Rick realize that Stan was getting rather tired of his antics. He had to give a little to get a little, right? 

The highway laid out before them stretched into the horizon, and remained flat for miles. In the distance, large mountains peppered the landscape. Bushes were a common sight, maybe the occasional tree. Other than that, there was one or two low billboards advertising rest stops, but the sun had faded them so that the words were nearly illegible. Who would be in the middle of the desert waiting for them? Rick flashed a lurid grin, “H-heeey Pines, h-how about we play a game?” he leaned forward a bit, leaning against the armrest. Stan screwed his face up for a moment, tapped the ash out the window, and gave a little side eye.

“What kind of game?” his voice emitted veiled curiosity and suspicious caution.

“I-i-it’s called ‘keep your eyes on the road’,” he was no longer looking at Stan in the eyes, but down at his trousers, which he did not bother to belt up, sweat-stained shirt untucked and crumpled.   
Stan replied by sharply inhaling through gritted teeth, and blowing the smoke out his nose. He didn’t feel entirely comfortable with what Rick had in plan, but he was willing to go with it. Right now, he had the power. He was the driver. He got away with a lot of things because he had the keys to the car. Stan allowed the thin man to lean over the arm rest and tug at the weak button of his pants, zipper coming down with it, the fabric peeling away from his skin. Rick looked like he was rummaging around a junk drawer. Even though he was doing his best to smoke and focus on the road, it was much easier for Stan to get it up when he wasn’t under the influence of alcohol. The bulge in his briefs became uncomfortable, and he grunted to indicate that maybe something should be done about it.

Tsk-ing and laughing at the driver, Rick pulled the briefs down enough to get a good peak at his girthy cock. He ducked under Stan’s arm and bent his head down, sticking out his tongue, and giving the lightest of licks to the emerging, swollen tip. Fingertips gently grazed across the skin, almost ceremoniously pulling the foreskin back. He blew gently, and he could see Stan shudder. It was then that he dove in sloppily, tongue lolling against the underside of his dick. His lips, loose as he possibly could make them, wrapped around the organ, and provided an unsatisfying amount of suction. 

This irritated Stanley greatly, and he gripped the wheel tightly with his right hand, the left one now holding the cigarette between his index and middle finger, a thin line of smoke trailed up toward the roof of the car. 

He didn’t quite appreciate the laziness in which his dick was getting sucked. After all, it was he who was in power in the power position. Stanley took the longest drag he could muster from his cigarette, before tilting his head down, and blowing it straight in Rick’s face. He muttered under his breath about how he could do better. The sudden confrontation of smoke in Rick’s eyes and face caused the man to choke, and once he registered what had been said to him, he popped his head up for a moment to look up at Stan and growl, his voice gruff and infuriated, “Wh-wat did you say!?” before diving down again until the man’s cock was buried in his throat. At that mouth, his lips curled back, and he dragged his teeth up the shaft as roughly as possible without causing any skin breakage of damage of the sort. Stanley was not used to the feeling, and being fairly sensitive to pain down there he let out a shocked yell, threw the cigarette out the window, grabbed the wheel with both hands, and inadvertently caused the car to go into a heavy swerve. Rick was rocketed backward, hitting the back of his head and shoulders off the window, and falling forward again, “T-that’s what I thought!” he spit. 

“What the hell!?” Stan looked over at Rick, he had shouted at the top of his lungs. That was only sound that the two heard. It started off as a beep, and then the sound of a siren. Looking into the rearview mirror, Stan realized what was happening; a State Trooper was stationed behind one of the few billboards in the area. Swearing again, he stuffed himself back into his pants, zipping it up, but not buttoning it up, “What do I do, do I floor it?” he looked over at Rick in a panic.

Rick thought for a moment about how the situation should be handled. His expression went from thoughtful, to then genuine sadism, which fit the curl of his lips perfectly, “No, you should definitely stop. Sh-show me that Stanco ch-urrrrrparm. We don’t, w-we don’t have anything to hide,” the idea of Stan embarrassing himself in front of an officer was a delightful thought to Rick. This would be cake compared to other authority powers in the multiverse he was actively evading.

Sweat beaded on Stan’s forehead, his hands shook and he pulled the car over, placing it in park. His hands clasped each other, resting on his stomach, and he twiddled his thumbs. The cop car was not far behind, and a stout, spectacled officer exited the vehicle, and ambled over to the driver side of his car, “Oh w-wow they really stationed the A-team here, am I right?” Rick was laughing at the site of such a stubby man. Stan was doing his best just to stop sweating so much and drum up a charming smile. It was incredibly difficult when he was in desperate need of a shower and a haircut. 

The officer looked anything but pleased. He was in the middle of a crossword that he very much wanted to get back to. That’s why he was so pleased to take these shifts – very rarely did he run into any issues. Today, however, was not his day, and when he got to the driver side window he was met with the disheveled face of Stanley Pines, “Hello officer!” he said maybe a little bit too loudly, “What seems to be the problem on this lovely day?” Although he had his best salesman face on, the dark bags under his eyes and clammy pallor of his skin from lack of sleep made him look more like a junky than anything else.

Not to be amused, the officer barked, “You know very well what I’m stopping you for, son,” his eyes darted from the driver to the passenger. Inspecting them in a cursory fashion he could smell the alcohol off the older man’s breath-his mouth was slightly open, eyes wide. He seemed…not entirely there. It made the officer uneasy. Looking down at the driver he noticed the fly halfway down, the button also undone—this was quickly becoming something he did not want to be involved in.

“May I interest you in these complimentary unmarked bills?” Stan waved the face of Alexander Hamilton gently at the State Trooper. 

The officer snatched the $10 from Stan’s fingers and grumbled about not wanting to see ‘their kind’ back in New Mexico again. Straight-faced, Stanley put the car in drive again and drove off while the officer was still outside his car. Watching the red sedan leave the man looked down at the bill in his hands and gave a shiver before pocketing it.   
In the car, Rick was laughing raucously at what he had just witnessed, “Complimentary unmarked bills? W-wow, Pines…you’re a pill,” he settled down in his seat and had a small smile playing on his lips.

Stan noted the smile, and looked into the rear view mirror to make sure he wasn’t be followed by the policeman. It made him feel good when Rick was acting like a genuine friend, and even though their interactions were less-than-pleasant most of the time, he was truly thankful for the times when Rick treated him like a person. When he wanted to, he was excellent at it, and Stanley puffed out his chest at the idea of him impressing Rick. Noting that they had driven out of sight of the State Trooper, Rick opened another bottle, and they cracked a few jokes about horrifying Mormons as they headed toward Utah.


	3. Riding the Waves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stan stops in Utah for a refreshing shower.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah this is extreme dub-con. I'm warning you now, if you're the sensitive sort - why are you reading this? It's about to get wild.
> 
> Don't mind me I'm going to go scream into the void.

“Utah almost looks like another planet,” Stan remarked, marveling at the large edifices that shaped the road they were on. Some parts of the highway were carved straight into the mountains. Bluffs were oddly shaped, stacked on the landscape sparsely, 

“Y-yooou’d think that, but that’s really not the case,” Rick said curtly, punctuating his sentence with a swig from a bottle.

Stanley wasn’t sure how to process some of the outlandish things Rick said. Could it have been from dabbling with too many different drugs? He knew Rick had his sources, and he couldn’t help but wonder what the older man got up to when he wasn’t hanging around, hurling insults at him. “Ookay…” he muttered quietly and didn’t ask Rick to elaborate.

He loved it when Stanley didn’t ask any questions. That’s one thing he really took pleasure in. Pines was good for anything. He didn’t have to go into detail, because it always ended out fine. If they kept up the pace and made it to Gravity Falls without running into intergalactic authorities, he would be fine. Rick figured that once they were there the anomalies would off-set his presence, and he could finally leave. Every once in a while, he’d eye the sky for any sign, and then continue to slip deeper and deeper into drunkenness. A peripheral glance of Stanley forced a smirk out of him; he looked nervous, and that was exactly what was keeping him safe. 

For Stan, he was in his own head. The closer they got to Oregon, the tighter the feeling was in his chest. Over and over again he rehearsed what he would say to his brother. It was something he thought about constantly. His legs were falling asleep in the position that he was in. He would kick his foot against the floor of the car to get the feeling back. He grit his teeth, he scratched the back of his neck, all telltale signs of his irritation. There was no way he would be able to spend the next hour in the car. It seemed like miles before there was any sign of life, and he kept attention to any signs.  
To his relief, a truck stop seemed to be not too far from where they were, and he hoped to at least be able to take a shower. Stanley preferred that his brother not see him worse-for-wear. After a long stretch of highway hugged by bluffs on either side, a sizeable truck stop came into view. Stanley slowed down to pull in.

“H-h-hey wh-wh-at are you doing?” Rick, who was not looking forward to stopping at any point.

Stan parked the car between two pick-ups, “You think I’m going to see my brother like this?” he motioned at his body, which was drenched in three layers on sweat, “The least I can do is shower before I see the guy,” he fiddled with the seatbelt and started to exit the car, “Get something to eat or stay in the car, or do whatever you want,” he shrugged and opened the back door to the car, grabbing some clothes from the duffle bag, and slamming the door unceremoniously. He headed toward the stalls which were behind a ramshackle diner.  
The keys were left in the car, and Rick decided he would stay and crawl into the driver side seat. At least that one was able to lean back. He lifted his legs onto the dashboard, kicking off a couple of takeout boxes and cups. After turning the radio on, he chugged the remains of his bottle, and set it down on the passenger seat. The music was quiet, but the beat was raucous and erratic. Rick muttered along to the words of the song, but it came out more like sputters, grunts, and burps. Wiping his mouth, he stared off into the horizon, but heard a familiar noise off to the side. 

Stanley inspected himself in the mirror after he had paid to use the stalls. The dark circles under his eyes accentuated the sickening paleness of a man suffering of sleep deprivation. His face was scruffy and just about to where it wasn’t quite a beard and it wasn’t quite acceptable five o’clock shadow. He didn’t have time to shave, so he could at least scrub himself down as best he could—he didn’t have any clean clothes on him, just items that were less dirty than others. He ambled over to a shower stall that had its own changing station, peeled off his clothes, and twisted the knob for hot water as far as it would go. A sputter, hiss, and then spit of near-scalding hot water blasted from the head and after a moment of hesitation, Stan stepped in. The shower definitely not the cleanest he’d ever been in, but the feel of the water on his skin ameliorated his disgust. Turning around so that the water hit his back, he sighed and visibly relaxed under the pressure and heat.

Rick, on the other hand, was anything but relaxed. He turned his head only slightly so he could take a look at what that sound was. It was exactly what he thought; guards from the Citadel stepped out of a portal and surveyed their surroundings. They seemed to be muttering hurriedly, suspiciously; Rick sank down in the driver’s side, a hand on his portal gun. In the event of absolute necessity, he would run, and Stanley would understand. He was relieved to notice that none of these Ricks knew that he was in this car, and providence had him hidden enough from view to not require further investigation. A couple shrugging, the Ricks walked into the diner. Narrowing his eyes, he growled and cocked his head to view the stalls. Through gritted teeth he gnashed, “You better hurry, Pines.”  
For the first time in a while, Stan felt a smile tug at his lips, a genuine one. One that wasn’t nefarious, he was just comfortable, the shower was just what he needed. He wasn’t so apprehensive about getting back in the car with Rick at this point. He could take the cold, clock-him-in-the-face insults for a little while longer. He figured they were about halfway there, so he afforded himself this extra been of time just to gain a little bit of sanity. The tiniest sliver of soap slid in the palm of his hands and after lathering it up well, he scrubbed his face and neck feverishly, and continued downward. When he reached the bit of paunch had acquired from years of fast food, he frowned a bit, “I gotta get back into shape,” he furrowed his brow, and continued to strip himself of dirt and grime. 

The guards in the diner decided it would be the perfect opportunity to bite something to eat. Rolling his eyes, Rick tried to think of how to proceed in a way that would best benefit him. He knew he was smarter than the other Ricks, he was the original Rick. At least, that’s what he’d always claimed. There was no use in trying to escape through a portal; Stan wasn’t with him to mask his waves of genius. Widening his eyes, he realized that if Stan’s emotions became more agitated or if he experienced some kind of stress, it would throw them off the trail again. His lips stretched into a flat smile, and he rifled through the glove compartment for a cigarette. It was time to stretch his legs while the others were distracted. 

Stan’s hands wandered down to his groin, massaging the creases and groin, which felt especially good. One hand cupped his balls, kneading them gently while his dick sprung to life. Breathing deeply through his nose, he didn’t feel it would hurt if he touched himself a little bit. Fingers trailed up the growing shaft, and his thumb rubbed the exposed head. Smirking, he gripped himself a little tighter and lazily pumped up and down his cock. He sucked in his lower lip, biting down gently, trying, with some difficulty, to remain completely silent. His thoughts wandered to the night before; it wasn’t the greatest sexual experience he had, but he pondered at the idea of if he really did like it when Rick spat venomous insults at him when they were fucking around. It wasn’t the craziest thing he’d ever heard, but it made him feel a repressed sense of guilt. The guilt translated into a twinge of pleasure through his cock. 

Rick exited the vehicle as soundlessly as he could. The other Ricks were situated in a back corner, but to make sure they absolutely did not see him, he slunk between the cars until he reached the side of the restaurant. The cigarette hung loosely from his lips, and before he reached the door to the shower stalls, he picked up a large red rock. Stopping, he took a drag from the cigarette and stretched out his legs. Stanley really needed to clean out that piece-of-shit vehicle of his. Grunting in affirmation of the thought, pulled the door open to the shower stalls, and shut the door without a word. The rock he picked up served as a perfect wedge to keep the door stopped tight. The rest stop wasn’t functioning at its busiest, he was sure time could be afforded. He wouldn’t take long.  
Stan heard nothing over the high pressure of the water. It was like a pleasant white noise in the back of his skull, soothing and clearing. This was the first time in months that he had let his guard down enough to feel comfortable. He continued to tug on himself in a pulsing motion, only letting the slightest of sighs escape his lips. Remaining in that state for a few more moments, he heard a noise behind him, a chuffed snort. The smell of what little soap he had mingled with the tell-tale scent of his particular brand of cigarettes. He half-turned his head, but was met with a, “O-ohh no, duh-don’t stop on my account.”

There was a moment’s pause, and Stan let go of himself. Rick watched the other man look taken aback, vulnerable, and turn around. The view was a bit different from when they had first met, but Rick didn’t mind or care. With a free hand, he reached out to run a thumb down Stan’s jawline. Stan jerked his head back, “What are you doing?” he stepped back, but his back met the knobs for the shower. 

“You were taking too long,” he nodded toward Stan’s erection, lips pulling into a seemingly sweet smile, “I missed you,” there was a hint of laughter in his voice, but the tone could almost be mistaken for genuine, which was exactly how Stan perceived it. 

Stanley felt a genuine blush spread across his face. What was he saying? He was still incredibly unnerved, confused, and especially vulnerable, but Rick kept moving toward him and he had nowhere else to be. After taking another drag off the cigarette, he held it in the air, and walked toward the water. His clothes, stained with sweat, dirt, and who knows what else immediately began to soak, and clung to his thin frame. The free hand, which had touched Stan’s jawline, gripped his jaw much harder, pulling so that their lips finally met with crushing force. Rick’s tongue was already probing at Stan’s lips for entrance, a growling escaping his throat. Parting his lips to oblige him, they wrestled tongues for a moment, Stan more hesitant, his head reeling. 

With their lips never parting, Rick moved the hand on Stan’s face to turn the shower off. The steam hung thick in the air, and it was becoming difficult to breathe. Breaking the kiss with a pant, he took a moment to look into Stan’s eyes. Stanley froze. He couldn’t register what emotions were plastered on Rick’s face, but it looked like he was processing them life mad. It was then that Rick leaned close, cheek pressed against Stan’s, his lips touching ear lobe, “You’re not gonna say a fucking word,” it wasn’t slurred. It wasn’t stuttered. It was ordered, and gravely serious. Before Stan could actually register what was said, Rick had gripped his shoulder, and shoved the man to the side and up against the wall of the wooden stall. Their lips locked again, fiercer than before, teeth clicking against each other. Stan let this happen, partially because he was so tired he didn’t have much fight left in him. He desperately wanted to see where this was going, hands reaching up to grasp at Rick’s drenched lab coat. There was nothing to prepare him for what he was in for. 

The cigarette was almost down to the filter, but Rick wasn’t finished with it yet. With one hand continuing to grip Stanley by the shoulder, he drove the cigarette down onto his left collarbone, and let it fizz there for a moment. A dark red hole opened up in his skin, and Rick managed to get one more stab in next to it before he dropped the finished butt on the tiled floor. Stan spasmed and went from fisting the man’s jacket to attempting to shove Rick away from him. The searing pain shot through him, and he would have let out a scream, but instead only a growl rumbled in his chest. He couldn’t come to terms with what was happening—so many emotions and what was normally registered as pain seemed to only produce waves of pleasure. His cock twitched from the excitement. Stan bit frantically at Rick’s chapped lips, catching the flesh between his teeth and applying enough pressure to break the skin. 

Rick growled and clawed at Stan’s shoulder. His nails, uneven, left dark pink scrapes in their path, “Turn around,” he barked, and shrugged out of the lab coat Stanley was still holding onto , “W-while y-urrrrr’re holding that jacket, get the bottle in the right pocket. He didn’t bother to wipe the blood that formed a thick droplet on his lip and slid down his chin. 

He underestimated Stan’s confusion and willingness to fight back. Stan clocked Rick straight on the jaw, spittle mixed with blood erupting from his mouth. Rubbing his jaw roughly, there was a heavy pause in the air. Stan stood, fist still cocked, but his eyes were wide, blush still spread across his face. Continuing to rub his face, Rick smirked, “I’ll let y-you have that one,” put reached up to grip the back of the other man’s hair, and yanking on the mullet, “Th-that st-euuuuugh-pid fucking haircut is useful after all, get the bottle, Pines,” and pointed at the jacket which now laid haphazardly on the floor.

The grip on the back of his hair loosened only to allow him to pick out a small, clear bottle out of his pocket with a clear fluid. He couldn’t read what it said on the label, the language definitely wasn’t English. While he did that, Rick’s freehand had begun to unbuckle his belt. Stanley could see a bulge through the soaked briefs. Springing free from the now-heavy fabric, both looked down at his intensely hard cock. Rick wagged his tongue at Stan lewdly and took the bottle straight out of his grasp, “Turn around.”

“No.”

Rick didn’t even say a word. He pulled the belt from his pants and doubled it up. Lifting it up to Stan’s eye level, he tightened his grip on the belt until it made a cracking sound. Gently slapping the fabric against Stanley’s cheek, he took his index finger and middle finger, and drove his fingers into the fresh cigarette wounds. Stan’s jaw opened wide, his chest puffing up as if to let out a bellowing scream. Rick took his fingers off the wounds and slapped his hand over the man’s mouth, “I said not a fucking word!” slapping the material a bit harder against the brunette’s paunch, “Move that gut.”  
Stan’s blush spread down to his neck. He dropped his hands down to his sides and tentatively turned to face the dull blue stalls. Rick let out a growl of approval and Stan felt him up against his back. His ass received a resounding slap, and he felt something hard up against the small of his back. Grabbing a handful of Stan’s rear he uncapped the bottle with his thumb and poured some on his index finger. He reached down to gently tap at the younger man’s puckered entrance. “B-be careful,” Stan let it come to a whisper. Rick, not receptive to him speaking at the moment, grabbed his hair, and shoved his face and body harder against the stall. Stan’s dick was pushed up against his stomach, throbbing painfully. Rick dropped the belt to the floor, and poured more of the lubricant on his finger, and circled the tender area. The particular lube he was using was especially receptive, heating up gently at the touch, and soon Rick had his middle finger in Stanley’s ass. 

Huffing, Stan held himself up against the wall with his hands. The other man was surprisingly gentle, but his ass was surprisingly receptive. Stan chalked it up to the little bottle of lubricant Rick had, “Jesus, Pines, do you, do you just let anyone do this to y-you, huh? Look at this-“ Stan couldn’t turn around but he felt a second finger ease into him, “you’re a fucking slut for this,” Rick reached around and gripped Stan’s cock. It hadn’t lost its hardness; the tip oozed pre-cum which was wiped away with a thumb. Feeling like he was on fire, the longer-haired man stifled a groan, reveling in the abuse hurled at him. Rick was more than happy to oblige, he knew what Stan liked. 

Tilting his head forward, Rick opened his mouth wise, and sunk his teeth into Stan’s shoulder. He didn’t bite hard enough to break skin, just enough to leave a purple welt later. He followed this procedure, trailing teeth indentations up the shoulders and toward the neck. A combination of sweet and sour was bound to open him up. Stan shuddered once he felt a tongue on his neck. Sweeping up and down in erratic strokes across the length of his neck, Rick dragged his tongue down the back of his neck and began biting the shoulder on the other side. Dick in hand, some of the excess lubricant was smeared onto the head, and he began positioning his cock, grabbing Stan by the hips every so often, muttering for him to angle himself in such a way. He kept one hand anchored to the other’s hip and made contact; there was a bit of resistance, but gentle coaxing eased the head inside.  
The initial tenderness was all that was allowed. He gripped Stan roughly by the hips and forced himself inside. Letting out a small shout, Rick reached a lanky arm around the thigh and gripped the scrotum, “Shh!” he hissed and slowly withdrew himself, not entirely though. He grinned as he felt Stan shudder around him, and drove himself back in again. The hand cupping Stanley’s scrotum drew circles in the skin for a moment and slid up to wrap around his shaft. Another gasp. Rick can only chuckle and murmur, “Y-you take it so well, I-I-I guess I could help you out,” there was an air of disdain reflected in his voice. Stan bucked his hips forward, but the hand holding them dug fingernails into his flesh and he stopped. Rick began to thrust himself in harder, at a more rhythmic pace. 

Every scrape of finger nail and inch of cock thrust into him sent fire shooting through Stan’s nerves. He raked his fingers down the wall, and pushed back against Rick’s motions. The hand on Stan’s hip was removed; he felt it run up his side, his neck, and then his cheek. Leaning into the hand, he was promptly slapped and two fingers hooked at his lips. Probing further, they made their way into his mouth teasing the teeth apart, stroking the tip of his tongue. Stanley idly sucked on the digits, and in response, the hand on his dick squeezed in approval. “Mmm, th-that’s…that’s really hot, but it’s kind of hard to-“ he withdrew his fingers, as the position was difficult to maintain, and scratched at Stan’s hips once again. Slapping the soft flesh with whip-like strength, Rick bit on his lip to stifle a moan. Every time he smacked him, Stan tightened up—the sensation was delicious, and positively too much. 

Rick was desperate to finish, speeding his pace up, muttering under his breath, “I’m gonna cum reeeeal soon, and y-you’re gonna take it all,” he punctuated his sentence with a snort, and wrung his hand haphazardly up and down Stan’s cock. For Stan, it felt like he was on the edge of oblivion. He could erupt at any time, and was so eager to he reached down, grabbed his balls, and began to squeeze in a pulsing rhythm. Shuddering, Rick growling and leaned forward, sinking his teeth into Stan’s right shoulder. His thrusts had stopped, but dick twitched, shooting hot ropes of cum in Stan. Crying out, the brunette was pushed into the abyss; spurts of semen landed on his stomach, Rick’s hand, and the wall. There was a very still moment when finally Rick, considerably softened, pulled out and looked down at his hand, and then over at the shower head. Shrugging, he preferred to just lick the cum off his fingers and pulled his pants back up. He seemed to have even more energy than before, and the other man had all the energy sapped righto out of him. Rick smirked and slipped on his lab coat, exiting the stall. 

Stan was left alone for a moment, panting and standing in place. After the initial shell shock of his orgasm, he turned to face the shower, once again turned it on for a brief moment to wash off the excess semen, and exited the stall, reaching for the crumpled towel intermingled with his clothes. Rick waited while Stan dried and dressed himself at a snail’s pace. Eyes heavy-lidded, he looked over at the still-soaked man and smiled dopily. Rick snorted, “Y-you’re looking worse than I-I-I thought, Pines,” his expression matched disgust, “Th-think I’ll drive for a while,” he was a better driver drunk than Stan was sleep-deprived. Rick chuckled to himself and removed the wedge from the door, careful to once again be as quietly as possible. When they reached the car, the other Ricks were nowhere to be found. Turning on the ignition, Rick marveled in how well his plan worked. Either it worked, or the Ricks following him were incredibly unperceptive, which was also entirely possible. 

Feeling much more comfortable than before, Stan sat in the passenger seat; another cigarette between rested between his own fingers. He stared out the window blankly, taking the occasional puff. Growing drowsier, and drowsier, he smiled to himself at how good he felt now, and how great he would feel in the future. After flicking the half-smoked cigarette out the window, Stanley leaned to the side and rested his head against the window while Rick swore under his breath about how absolutely horrific the condition of the car he was driving was so poor, and that he could probably make this thing purr in no time. Stan heard none of it, and fell into a gentle slumber.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am currently working on Chapter 4, which will be called "Private Idaho." I didn't want to do another road trip aspect of the chapter, but here I am. 35minutesago gave me some good ideas. Feel free to message me if you'd like to see something in an upcoming chapter; I'm sure we can come to some sort of arrangement.
> 
> Also, there's gonna be some non-con going on in the next chapter. I give full disclosure for all my fics, so you've been warned!


	4. Devil on a Leash

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rick & Stan decide to stir up some trouble in a shitty little town. Things escalate quickly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is gonna seem -real- confusing. Just stay with me.

The two men surveyed the pool hall with little enthusiasm. They would not stay here long, they just wanted a bit to drink and get on with the rest of their night. After the order came through of a beer for Stan and a bottle of the cheapest vodka for Rick, they procured their own little slice of the hall with a table in the back corner. Grease and smoke hung in the air; the acrid scent was pungent enough to make the eyes water, but this was the type of environment the two thrived in. Leaning on his pool cue, Stan took a long sip and watched a rather amped-up Rick attempt to line up a shot on the pool felt. He made contact, but hit the ball in such a way that it lazily scattered the balls across the felt in an anticlimactic bump. Swearing vehemently under his breath, he motioned toward the table with a look to Stan that read, “Can you fucking take care of this already?” He couldn’t help but chuckle at the man’s poor sportsmanship.

“Look at you, over there, you think you’re better than me?” Rick slammed his hands on the edge of the table and glowered at Stan.

Stan simply lined up his own shot; he knew Rick was trying to throw him off, “Maybe—9 ball corner pocket” he smirked, and sunk his shot.

Rick stood up straight and took a long swig from his bottle. Ending his drink with a burp, he put the bottle down and sputtered, “Look at, look at M-Mr. Cool Guy over here,” his voice carried through the bar, but there was no one except a disinterested bartender and a drunkard passed out in the opposite corner of the bar.

“M-maybe,” Stan made a point to rag on Rick’s stutter, “if you took the time to line up the shot properly-“

“I don’t need a lecture from the man who couldn’t pass Physics 101 in high school without the help of his freak brother,” his statement was surprisingly sober, and surprisingly cutting. The serious look didn’t last long though, both burst out in good-humored laughs and continued with their game. By the time the first game was up, Rick had nearly finished his bottle of vodka, but Stan was nursing his drink.

At this point, both of them were feeling rather swell. Once Rick calmed down and took the time to play-the man got bored easily-the games started gain a competitive edge. The bartender watched with veiled interest, and a couple of townies had entered the bar not entirely keen on seeing newcomers. A few, waiting for their drinks, stood around watching them, a couple picking up their own cues and heading to an empty felt they could claim. Two men in particular found great amusement in Rick’s elevated mood and drunken stuttering.

“M-m-make sure y-y-y-you…” one of the men snorted before he lined up his own shot. In no way was Rick paying attention; the alcohol in his system and his good mood should have been viewed as a blessing to the other men. Truly, it wasn’t Rick they had to worry about.

Stan was not intoxicated. At least, not like Rick was. He heard every word. He stood stock still-cue in hand, giving the offenders a side-eye. His fingers squirmed against the piece of wood, palms itching knuckles cracking. Rick, who had sunk the eight ball, wasn’t too happy, and stomped over to the bar to get another drink. The townies, feeling more comfortable after they had downed their own drinks, caught Stan’s eyes glancing in their direction, which only added to their obnoxious behavior. The stutters became more of a caricature of a human being’s linguistic pattern, rather than anything that had ever been uttered out of his mouth. It was at this point, Stan pivoted to turn and face the men.

He was met with expressions of belligerency, “Don’t tell me ya’ll’re queer too?” one of them snorted.

“Buddy, you can fuck right off there,” he let go of his pool cue and cracked his knuckles.

“Oh what? Are you o-o-offended for us m-m-making fun of your ruh-ruh-ruh-RETARD boyfriend?” he grinned; this wasn’t the guy’s first time he’d gotten into the trouble, the man was missing quite a few teeth. 

Stan snorted a bit, “I’m warning you...”

“What are ya gonna do, fairy? Sprinkle some magic faggot dust on us so we hug it out?” The other limped their wrist and would have begun to speak in a falsetto if Stan’s fist hadn’t connected with his jaw first. Rick had returned from the bar with a bottle in hand and watched, mouth agape. A little bit of drool hung from the corner of his lips, which screwed up into a crooked smile, “Yeaaaaaaah!” the man screamed, dropping his bottle and lifting up his pool cue, “PINES, PINES, PINES!” he shouted, breaking the pool cue on his knee, and lunging for the other man.

This turned into a full own brawl. 

The townies didn’t have much time to react, but when strangers at a bar start attacking their friends, they don’t take too kindly to that. Naturally, they descended on the pair. The two looked at each other, and went back-to-back, Stan calculating his movements quickly like the boxer that he was, and Rick being more of a wildcard was poised to swing both pool cues with ambidextrous madness. While Stan engaged each person one-on-one, Rick kicked and swung his way at his attackers; one particular crack of the cue on the skull of a foe left a slew of splinters in the side of his face. Not able to help himself, Rick quipped, “Y-yeaaah that’s the only wood y-y-euuuuugh’re gonna get from me.”

“Rick, that was horrible,” Stan grunted as a hook caught him right below the eye.

Rick snorted at Stan’s reply, lunging and smacking down two men with a halved pool cue each, “Well, this is taking too long,” though the men were on the ground, Rick continued to beat them for a few moments, “How else am I gonna have fun?” there was blood on his coat. One of the men groaned. Without taking an eye off Stan, Rick kicked the culprit.

Wiping blood from a cut on his nose, Stan only then realized that they had run out of opponents. The men lay strewn on the ground, one on a pool felt, several unconscious. The bartender was two feet away from a rotary phone on the wall, “You gentlemen best leave –I’ll give you five minutes, and I’m calling the police-“

“No need, we’re leaving,” Stan shot a glance at Rick that made him sigh and pick up the bottle of vodka.

“I’m taking this!” Rick lifted the bottle up and pointed.

The bottle was pulled from his hands, and Stan was now using it on his face, “Let’s go find your fun,” he spat on the ground as they made their exit. 

Stanley had parked a little ways off, and it probably was better that way as they slipped into the back alleys of the town. A fine mist hung in the air, the ground damp, and brick grimy. Taking the bottle off his face and letting the cool air hit his superficial wounds, Stan handed Rick the bottle back, which he took to drinking down immediately.

The sound of a police siren rang in the distance, but they were far enough away from the bar and close enough to the car where it would be a non-issue. None of the townies knew what the Stanmobile looked like anyway. Rick was more excitable than usual, and Stan remained stoically quiet. He was having fun, the brawl was something he hadn’t gotten to do for a little while, but he could be doing something a little more his style. He groped for a little baggy inside his jacket pocket. Maybe later…he thought to himself. Rick, a step ahead of him knowingly blurted, “Gimme a bump.”

Sighing, Stan stopped, and leaned against the wall of the alleyway near a mottled green dumpster. He pulled out the small dime bag from his pocket, and pulled out the keys to his car. Rick, impatient, expectantly stamped his foot, “C’mon, Pines, you’re faster than that, I need that sweet pearl.”

Rolling his eyes, he stuck the tip of the key into the baggy, pulling out a little and originally went to hand it over to Rick, who was rubbing his hands together in eager anticipation, “Ah!” Stan laughed and brought the tip of the key to his own nose, and snorted deeply. It didn’t immediately take effect; however the process made Stan feel a rush in and of itself. He never had an alcohol problem, no issues with pills or anything, but it was cocaine that he sincerely felt would get him into trouble. He laughed at Rick’s curses at him, did another bump in the opposite nostril, and then offered the man the bag.

“Oh, so y-y-you’re – it’s self-serve, huh?” he took liberties with his own bumps, and shoved the bag and keys back at Stan when he was done. Rick rubbed any residual powder from his messy handling from the bag on his gums and grumbled, “Fuckin’ amateur.”

Stan remained where he stood, taking in the atmosphere, and pulled out a pack of cigarettes from his jacket to smoke. Watching the flame of his lighter briefly, he looked over at Rick, who, once again, was ready to keep moving. “Relax, Sanchez, we’re fine. I just want to wait and feel it kick in.”

“Y-y-you don’t m-move for anyone, do you?”

“I’ll move when I’m good and ready,”

Rick respected that, and watched as the rock of a man smoked his cigarette nonchalantly. Though his irritation with Stan was at a constant, he rolled with the punches. He could snap back if he needed too, and he most certainly wasn’t a pushover. Over the past few weeks, the two had grown close, a little too close for Rick’s comfort. He had plans, and had developed an invention-much like he always had around Stan-but this was a game changer. Now he had a device that could take him to another dimension. Though he was certainly used to going through the green portal that would splat on a wall when he chose to, he wasn’t quite sure Stan would understand. Stan didn’t need to understand, the man was usually down for anything, and finally, finally there was someone who he could trust enough to maybe even go to another dimension with. Rick’s demeanor seemed to change, expression softening, perhaps he could tell him tonight.

Stan had finished his cigarette, and knew Rick was watching him, so he took his time. A heat built up in his chest, and it moved to his head rather quickly. He could feel himself getting some energy. He felt good, and he felt mean. Once he smoked the cigarette completely down to the filter, he flicked it at the opposite wall and cocked his fist, sending it straight into the mottled dumpster with a loud bang. Laughing maniacally, he walked over to Rick, and put an arm around him, “Okay, let’s go, c’mon.”

Rick was snapped out of his trance from the sound of fist hitting dumpster. His vision blurred as he shook his head quickly, like shaking off dust, “Haha, yeah! There he is!” Maybe the little talk could wait for now, and they slipped into the street, searching for another alleyway closer to the car.

At the end of this alleyway was a gated fence that could easily be hopped leading to the parking lot of a strip mall where they had parked the Stanmobile. Stan already had another cigarette in his mouth, puffing away while Rick committed violent acts on anything that wasn’t chained or bolted down. The violence culminated to a point where Rick was now standing near a large stack of palettes, eyeing it up to see if he could climb onto it, and then find a way onto the roof from there.

“Easy there, tough guy,” Stan was feeling a bit violent himself, but was more focused in his head. Tugging on the back of Rick’s coat, he caught the man off balance, who fell up against the brick. Taking a moment to admire the vulnerability of his situation, he decided to take advantage. Cigarette hanging out of his mouth, smoke spiraling into the haze, he took a hold of Rick’s arms, pinning him, “I like the view, though,” he towered over Rick, whose slumped , drunken posture seemed to diminish his figure.

“D-don’t get used to it,” Rick’s face fell, unimpressed with his strength. Stan let go of a wrist only to pull the cigarette from his lips and place it on top of the palette stack, and quickly went back to the same stance he was in.

Rick wasn’t one to be pushed around; authority was something to be destroyed. Every once in awhile, went caught in a mood, Stanley was able to take control of the situation. That bit of powdered courage was enough to give him the ability to do so. Pressing up against the pinned man, Stan brought their lips together in a hungry, messy kiss. Rick pulled himself up a bit straighter and, like the fighter he was, rotated his wrists in an attempt to weasel his way back into power. Stan growled into the kiss and gripped him tighter.

Now running his tongue over Rick’s lips, Stan took the other man’s wrists in one hand, and pulled out of his back pocket two zip ties. As easily as Rick could have resisted and pushed him away, he decided to keep playing the submissive role, if only for the aching hardon waiting to spring out of his trousers. Even though he knew how to break cable ties, this was something he desired to play through, and willingly let his wrists be secured. This didn’t stop him from growling, or biting at the lips and tongue of the-seemingly-stronger man.

Breaking the kiss, Stan gripped Rick’s coat and pulled him closer. Bound wrists placed in front of him, Rick’s hands brushed up Stan’s growing bulge in his jeans. Rick considered a quick, but painful love tap, however instead opened his palms up to rub the material; it was met with a groan of approval. Still gripping the coat, the dominant man spun them around so that his own back was against the wall. Fisting the material in one hand, he reached up to bring the cigarette placed on the palette back to his lips. Chomping the filter between his teeth he snorted a little smoke out of his nose; maneuvering the cigarette in his teeth let the accumulated ash fall in the cup of Rick’s hands, “Jesus, Pines!” he barked, but his jaw was gripped tightly by Stan, who shook the man’s head in his hands, leering.

“Put your arms around my neck,” that was an order through grit teeth which Rick disdainfully complied to, lifting his arms over Stan’s head and resting them on his shoulders. Letting his left hand go of the material of Rick’s coat, Stan gripped the back of Rick’s thighs, and pulled him up into a sitting position. Instinctively, Rick wrapped his legs around the other man’s waist. Stan used his shoulders against the wall to allow himself to slide down the wall until his ass hit pavement.

Stan took a quick moment to revel in the amount of power he held in his hands. He blew a bit of smoke into Rick’s face and decided rather than to immediately get things started, he want to let him know how sweet he found this to be, “You know, I appreciate the struggle, I do,” he looked down and placed his own hand on the other man’s stomach, just above the belt, “I think I’ve come to appreciate this…uphill battle,” he rolled his eyes for a moment, took another drag from his cigarette, “Before I met you,” he sneered, “I spent months on my own, nearly completely alone,” he thought about mentioning Carla McCorkle, which still burned him, but it seemed inappropriate. Breathing deeply through his nose, he ran his hand on Rick’s stomach up to his throat, “I realized during that time,” his hand now gripped Rick’s throat tight enough to elicit a strangled burp , which Stan found aggravating. He shook Rick’s neck, which made the man’s head flop like a rag doll back and forward, “…that I didn’t need anyone but myself,” he squeezed a little tighter, and took the cigarette out of his mouth to lean in real close, “…including you,” he punctuated the sentence with a kiss on the cheek.

Rick’s strong-willed personality would not stand for much more of this monologue. He wouldn’t normally let someone talk to him like that, except Stan. This was a rare occurrence, when Rick was in the right mood to let himself go for a couple of minutes. His words, which were garbled by the screaming banshee that was a mix of cocaine and alcohol in his head, but it made sense to him. There was a pleasant buzzing in the back of his skull that radiated heat and confusion. Did he love Stan? Did he ever get this feeling being around someone else? He shook these silly, niggling thoughts out of his head. Once Stan had finished speaking to him, he grit his teeth when he received the kiss on his cheek. Rick’s reaction to this was to lean his head back and spit in his face.

Stan laughed, another thing that Rick liked about him—he didn’t get indignant in the face of embarrassment—and didn’t bother wiping the saliva from his face at the moment, “I see how it is,” he never changed his tone, but was grinning widely, “We can make this a game, if you want,” he released his grip on Rick’s neck, and let his hand trail slowly down to collarbone, “We’ll call it,” his voice lowered, “don’t scream loud enough so the cops can hear you,” and pulled the blue material away from Rick’s shoulder, and stuck the last smoldering vestige of the cigarette into the crook of his collar bone. Muffling the shout by shoving his face into his opposite shoulder, he waited until Stan threw the butt away before leaning up to bite at Stan’s ear lobe.

“Do it again, m-motherfucker, I fucking dare you,” Rick was so riled up, his saliva looked as if it were frothing in his mouth.

Shrugging, Stan reached into one of his jacket pockets for something, and shook his head, “No, I don’t want this to come and bite me in the ass later.”

Rick wasn’t looking at what was being pulled out and balled into Stan’s fist, but he had an idea, “Yeah it will,” he muttered, pulling his arms up above Stan’s head, placing them in front of him, and with open palms shoved Stan back up against the wall. Grinding himself up against the dominant man’s package, he growled, unaware of a metallic flash. A brass knuckled fist came hit him from his left cheek, Rick falling to the side in a spray of spit, blood, and obscenities. Pulled up by the hair, Stan rested his forehead against the other man’s and keeping his gaze on him, began unbuttoning his tightening jeans.

Rick forced his face to fall into an expression of bored disdain. The hit wasn’t as hard as he was expecting; he knew Stan was really holding back with that one, and for obvious reasons. A welt began to form, and Rick opened his mouth wide so Stan could see any damage he did, and began to inspect whether or not he still had all his teeth with the tip of his tongue. He felt his hands being pulled to touch bare flesh. Wrapping his hands around Stan’s now exposed cock, he never changed expressions. Rick let some of the blood drip from the corner of his mouth and onto his hands. He let the blood and saliva mingle and slick up the twitching member. Groaning, Stan bucked his hips into the other man’s hands. Wiping off a bead of precum, he gripped tighter along the shaft, but was met with resistance. For every pulse on the shaft, Stan now had his hand wrapped tightly against Rick’s neck again, pulsing squeezes for him, “Don’t do anything stupid,” his voice was low and gravely serious.

Considering his options for the most trouble he could be, Rick decided to give this night to Stan. This left a strange aching in the pit of his stomach and depths of his chest that he chose to ignore. He allowed himself to be lifted after his own pants were unbuckled. The odd position was starting to become painful, but he felt so good that the feeling numbed itself from what was in his system. His ass, now bare, felt cool air and his legs lifted up; he let go of Stan’s dick and was turned around so that his back was against Stan’s chest. A small twinge and palpitation began in Rick’s chest. For a lingering moment, he still wished he was facing Stan. He liked that smug grin, even though it was cheesy, almost fake. A hand waved in his face, and cupped under his chin, “Spit,” was the order, and Rick unleashed a pooled amount of blood and saliva, “Ugh,” was the response when the hand was brought back. A couple of moments passed and Rick felt something hot, wet, and hard poking at his ass, “Should I be nice?” Stan mused to himself, wiping his hand off on the coat that was now bunched up at Rick’s waist.

Growing angry at how much Stanley took his time, Rick fidgeted his legs violently, “Be whatever the fuck y-y-you want. If you want we can talk about all the things we’d like to be later,” He wrung his wrists in the cable ties until red irritation marks formed. The way his hands were bound made it difficult to even touch his swollen, erect member. Fussing over it appeared to tip Stan off, who reached around to grip Rick’s hands, and pull them up over his head. His fingers felt themselves running through Stan’s hair, and then resting in a spot on the back of the other man’s neck. This pulled Stan closer, so that they were cheek to cheek, and he could look down to see just what Rick was struggling with. Tutting softly, he wrapped his own massive hand around Rick’s aching dick and let his fingers brush softly along the underside. Gasping, Rick brought his face closer to Stan’s the zip ties pressing into the back of his neck purposely. 

Stan lazily ran his hands down Rick’s shaft, “I’m feeling generous, so you better treat me nicely,” the last word hung in the air in a fried growl. When Rick attempted to get a rise out of him by scraping his teeth against the nape of his neck, he decided he would take further direction of this, and not do what Rick wanted. He let go of Rick’s dick in order to grab his hips with an uncharacteristic softness. Positioning him so that the slathered head of his cock aligned with Rick’s entrance, he eased his own hips forward. Sufficiently slicked up enough, the head slipped in with no real complications, save for a little tugging around the ring. Stan made it a point to go as slow as possible while Rick flinched and gurgled something, but it was unintelligible. Once he was buried to the hilt, he rotated his hips in a circular fashion, which elicited another groan from Rick. Biting his lip, he savored the feeling, making his thrusts as gentle and slow as possible. One hand moved from Rick’s hips around and up under his shirt, rubbing and massaging the skin underneath his fingertips. Rick’s skin began to prickle, and Stan chuckled, sucking in his lower lip and nibbling at the skin.

Frustrated, Rick tensed himself as he felt the hand on his stomach moving upward toward his chest. Two fingers took his left nipple, and ever so slightly pulled on it. The amount of care that Stan took was uncharacteristic. Was it pleasant? Of course. Did Rick want that? No, not right now. He whined and found himself at this point helpless. His cock bounced with every thrust, a constant drip of precum drooled out of the head. Too riled up to care, Rick let his breathing go ragged and heavy. His cheek flushed, and it was very rare to see him in such a vulnerable state. Stan pulled harder at the nipple between his fingers, twisting it hard every so often to keep Rick on his toes. 

Stan was starting to feel bad for Rick. The lack of power looked good on him though, and moving away from his nipples, Stan went back to focusing on Rick’s cock. He stopped thrusting, but remained imbedded in the wasted man. Once his fingers were around the shaft again, the squirms and grunts from Rick told Stan this wouldn’t take him very long to complete. He made it a point to start off painfully slow, but once Rick got used to the rhythm, he sped up his pumping. There was a cry of joy, and then a laugh of relief, and Stan found himself being tugged forward by Rick’s bound hands to receive a kiss on the cheek. Stan pulled away, not because he minded, but because he did not want Rick to see the furious flush that had spread across his cheeks. Almost delirious from the delicious intensity of it all, Rick continued to laugh to himself until his breath hitched. His back arched and with little other warning, he spilled his seed into Stan’s hand.

“That’s for you,” Rick stated in a flat drawl. Now he was the one smirking, his body relaxing into Stan’s chest once again.

Stan took a moment to look his hand over, “Thanks,” but then promptly wiped his hand off on the front of Rick’s shirt, “but I don’t want it.”

“Jesus, Stan, y-y-you know we’ve got shit to do and…” he trailed off when Stan gripped his sides, and brought his face next to Rick’s. The stubble scraped across smooth skin. Rough kissing exchanged from earlier had caused a barber’s rash on Rick’s cheeks, but the irritation it caused was the least thing on his mind. 

“No thank you kiss?” Stan tsked, leaned back, and began his thrusting again. His fingernails dug into where Rick’s love handles would have been, giving him good leverage and grip. Originally, he wanted to keep it slow, and for a while, kept a pace similar to the half thrill of a kiddie ride at a theme park. He could feel himself softening; generally, this was not his style. Picking up the pace, he groped at Rick’s sides harder, fingernails breaking skin in small, disjointed cuts. Any exposed skin he could bite or lick was taken over in a frenzy. Rick’s squirmed underneath each lap of tongue and scrape of teeth. 

Rick could feel Stan getting close with the erratic manner of his thrusts. He felt it worthy to mention, “Pines, I-I-I-I swear, if y-eeeeeugh cum inside me, I’ll kick your ass,” he jerked his wrists so Stan grunted from his neck being pulled forward.

“Fair enough,” Stan raked his fingers down Rick’s sides one last time, leaving long, pink scrapes on his otherwise pale skin. Biting his lip for aid in concentration, he slammed into Rick, who was little more than an quipping rag doll. When he felt himself close, Stanley granted Rick’s request by pulling out, and aiming into his hand, “Here,” he grinned, sticking his hand underneath the blue material of Rick’s shirt again only to wipe it off in the inside. Rick could feel the stickiness on his back and swore vehemently.

“D-dammit, Stan!” he pulled his hands up and over his head, and forward quickly, using the momentum and strength to break the tie. Steeling himself for a moment in order to not hit him, he pulled up his pants and adjusted himself as best he could before irritably waiting for Stan at the end of the alley.

“I couldn’t help myself,” Stan used his shoulders to pull himself up while he buttoned up his pants again. Walking back over to Rick he grinned, “Let’s go start some real fun.” 

By the time they reached the car, it was the only one parked in their lot. Set off to the side of a strip mall, they gazed along the names of the shops. Stan was rummaging through his trunk and pulled out a heavy black bag. Slung over his shoulder was a shotgun, “You’re the better shot,” Stan brought the gun out for Rick to look at.

“Wh-what do you think we’re doing here, we don’t need a gun,” Rick crossed his arms, “We’re in the middle of nowhere. Y-y-you really-euuuuugh-you really think that these cops know what they’re doing?” 

Considering his point, Stan nodded in agreement, shrugged, and then put the gun in the backseat of the car rather than the trunk. Just in case. When they had arrived in the late afternoon that day, they spied a particularly ancient looking jewelry store right in the very strip mall they were in. Rick casually mentioned how he thought they could bring some souvenirs with them while they were traveling. How hard would it be to burgle such a tiny store? 

The storefront looked like it hadn’t been cleaned in years. The windows were glossed over in grime, the handle and door frame covered in rust spots, “Well, this should be easy, but…” Stan looked around, and the two of them headed toward the back of the building, “...what if things go sour?”

“Honestly Pines, who are we going to run into at this time of night? Gimme that, gimme that crowbar,” Rick pointed at a bit of metal sticking out of the bag Stan had slung around him. 

Obliging, Stan handed him the crowbar and watched as he attempted to break an old padlock that was the only thing keeping it truly secure. It crumbled after a few hits and Rick attempted to pry the door open. Swinging open harshly, it smacked against the brick wall, and came back to hit Rick. He was becoming careless, and Stan could see that, but he was just happy to be there for the thrill of it. They were hit with the stench of stale air and the heavy accumulation of dust. They left the back door open for ventilation and surveyed a backroom with a desk, some wall art, a grey metal box that could very well hold fuses, and an antiquated safe. Rick and Stan went back and forth as to whether or not they should break into it, or if they should just steal some jewelry, “As much as I’d like to open up this bad boy,” Rick slapped the safe, “I-I-I don’t think I have the patience,” so they moved to the showroom floor, if one could even call it that.

The carpet, which resembled the felt in the cases, was of a faded hunter green. There were two groups of cases, one at the front of the store, and a selection of small booths in a shambled circle in the middle. Stan inspected the dirty glass, going from case to case, and looking to the walls. A place like this didn’t seem to have any sophisticated theft detection, but Stan wanted to make sure. Rick made it awfully difficult for him.

“Wh-what are you doing, Pines,” Rick wiped some dust off a case to look inside, “This should be-urrrrp-this should be nothing,”

“There’s these little plastic things on some of the doors,” Stan poked at one of them to indicate their location, “Shouldn’t we be looking for a system, or something?”

“Oh,” Rick set the crowbar down just to make a show of his aggravation by placing both hands on his face, “oh, this is rich. I’m getting told how to burglarize a business from someone who has been either banned, or at some point jailed in nearly every state of this country. Let’s not forget who needed-euuuuuuugh- whose help to get out of there, Stan-leeeey,” he let that statement hang in the air, trailing it off in a lurid, mocking tone.

Stan folded his arms and watched Rick finish his ridiculous display of annoyance, “Okay, we’ll do it your way,” 

Those words sparked a new vigor in the older man, “Now you’re gettin’ it,” picking up the crowbar again, he went behind the case near the door, “just to prove that this isn’t a big deal, I’m going to assuage your worries. You know that word right, assuage?” he reached over to the little door that had a plastic box on it. He opened it. Not a sound echoed through the building.

At least, not for thirty seconds. Rick flashed Stan a look of victory, and began pulling a necklace out of the case. Stan walked around the group of cases in the middle, and was about to hop over when he heard a beep from a corner in the room. It was one beep, but it then summoned a rhythm of three quick beeps every couple of seconds. Stan looked to Rick, who didn’t seem to notice this was happening, wrapped up in a cape of his own ego and drug use. 

“Sanchez!” he barked urgently, but it was then drowned out by a loud droning. They did trip an alarm, and Stan frantically looked for a keypad or anything that would indicate that this could be shut off electronically. He spot something near the door hanging askew on the wall. Walking over to it, he noticed he could not find any wires, and even if the wires were cut at the door panel, that didn’t mean the signal would stop.

“Just grab what you can!” Rick yelled back and even though the beeps from the keypad were blaring through the store, he wanted to continue pulling jewelry out of the glass cases. 

It was at this point that Stan refused to listen to Rick in this matter. He tried to remember if he could think of a power source. Running to the back where the desk and safe were, he looked at the metal box in the corner. It looked newer than the store, so he walked up to it, and patted the top of the box with his hands. The owners left a key on top of the power source, which was locked. Sighing with relief at the idea that these people were too stupid to keep the keys in a secure area. When he swung the door open, he was met with wires. Dozens and dozens of wires that snaked in and out of each other, and through the panel. The mission to shut down the power source was becoming a little much, and finally Stan relented to the idea of just taking what they could, and getting out of there before the police arrived. 

By the time he had arrived back in the showroom, Rick was already walking out the front door, a cash till in hand and bloated pockets. Scoffing, Stan followed him to the car, both of them hopping in as quickly as he could. Before the vehicle was even started, Stan handed the gun in the back seat to Rick, “Just take it,”

Rick adjusted the rings that now bedecked his fingers, “I guess I could humor y-you,” he grabbed it, and rolled the window down. Looking in the mirror, he checked to see if any of the many necklaces around his neck had a clasp showing. 

Not bothering with a seat belt, Stan started the car, put it in drive, and swung it out into the street. For a few blocks, there was a bit of relief. Just a few miles out of the town, and they were close enough to the state border that this wouldn’t be an issue later. Stan heaved a sigh, and Rick laughed loudly at his implied relief, “I told you, there’s no need to be worried!” His triumph seemed cemented on his face, until only a few moments later, the back of the car lit of red and blue.

“Aw shiiiiit,” Stan cursed before glancing over to Rick at what to do, “do I just floor it until we get out of this damn state?” Great. Another state he’d most likely be banned in.

“Let’s…” Rick looked at the gun in his hands, “Let’s give ‘em a show. T-euuuuuughturn right up here.”

Stanley questioned Rick’s reasoning skills, but in his haste, turned to the right. The road they were on could go in two directions. Going straight would have left them going through a wooded area for a few miles, and then to the highway toward freedom. Right, which went deeper into the woods, would eventually get them to their destination, but was compiled of winding turns and cliff drops. Pavement narrowed considerably, and the integrity of the road itself faltered, as did many ill-kept backwoods areas. Rolling down the window, Rick kept his eyes out and viewed the police cars, which were now three in number, screech and bounce along to follow them.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?”

“I’m certain,” Rick figured if things got too hairy, he would then introduce Stan to the portal gun, and they could just skip this whole dimension, causing trouble elsewhere. To him, it was foolproof.

The message that the car in front was trying to convey was loudly garbled by inferior police equipment. Sounding almost bored, all the officers wanted was for them to stop so they could “talk.” This was not something that was going to happen, as Rick’s response was to hang out the passenger side window, gun poised on his shoulder, and shoot wildly at law enforcement. Stan grit his teeth; he wasn’t entirely sure they would get away from this one. He was certainly lost in a wooded back road with hairpin twists and turns, there was no way that the man could go any faster without killing them both. His navigator couldn’t tell them where to go, and so Stan kept plowing forward. It was an anomaly in itself that Rick was able to shoot out of the car without hitting branches, the road was so narrow. 

When he pulled himself back in, Rick was laughing hysterically, “Gotta hand it – gotta hand it to y-ya,” he could barely speak, the amount of excitement and liquor in his system was at an all-time high. Stan wasn’t listening; he was just trying to focus on the road, his body leaning over the steering wheel, ass not even touching the seat. Sweat dripped from his brow, his mind in utmost concentration. The motor carriage shook wildly, engine laboring through its demands. They probably would need a new car after this. Stan resolved that Rick would pay for all this trouble.

All the concentration in the world couldn’t help him navigate the curve ahead. The sickening sound of metal deafened them as they were flipped into a ravine. It must have rolled a good seven times before hitting the bottom; the pair now were laying on what was the ceiling of the car. Alcohol, ever a depressant, but incredibly good in a jam, was the only reason the position that Rick was in was comfortable at all. His window was already opened – and he looked out of what gap was in the car left, “Euuuuugh-I think I can-“ he was able to hoist himself out of the car, but crawled on hands and knees over to Stan, whom he realized was still unresponsive in the car and made no attempt to exit the vehicle.

Unresponsive was an understatement. His motionless body was wrapped around the steering console – his head hit his window, which was deeply cracked. Blood covered not only his window, but the windshield and the area around it. He still went back to where he crawled out to grab his lifeless hand, giving it a panicked squeeze. Shock was the only emotion that Rick could display at this time. Words were useless. The police had caught up to them and were descending the hill in what appeared to be slow motion to him. They were shouting at him not to move, to put his hands in the air.

Eyes welling with tears, he dropped the gun, and pulled his portal gun out of his pocket. He could leave. He didn’t want to. He should have just taken the chance earlier with Stan. Hands shaking, he entered in coordinates-did it even matter where to? –and opened up a portal, throwing one last mournful glance at the steaming car wreckage. An easy mistake that could have been fixed by Rick Sanchez, only to be foiled by none other than Rick Sanchez. Raising a middle finger toward the direction of the cops, he shot the portal gun into the ground, and stepped through what awaited him on the other side. Authorities saw one last flicker of green before they were left to clear up the wreckage. 

The dimension that Rick stepped into was quiet. Maybe his past dimension was too loud. His ears were still ringing from the crash, but at least he was still alone. There was nothing remotely similar to the topography of the landscape he had been in. A large moon was rising in the sky, and countless unnamed stars dotted the sky. Sinking to his knees, he stared up into the sheer vastness of it all. One night of fun had turned into an irreversible nightmare that would stay with him for the rest of his life. Mind brimming with guilt, he played with the portal gun in his hands. What would he do? 

He considered his possibilities. He could just go from dimension to dimension trying to ease his pain in some manner. There was also the idea of finding a new companion immediately. He didn’t want someone else. Rick wanted Stan, and that was his Stan, the big, beautiful idiot. That idiot was the one being he wanted to traverse this multiverse with, and now he was stuck with crippling depression and a lingering sense of self-doubt. For a time, Rick sat in the dirt, staring into the sky, trying to get himself to move. He remained in his spot for a good hour or so transfixed on the scenery before him.

It was time to think differently. Time to move forward. He would die here if he allowed himself to stay there much longer. Standing up, he looked down at himself to see if he sustained any injuries. He had some nasty cuts on his hands, and would probably be covered in bruises before tomorrow. There was no way he would go to a hospital, the injuries he sustained could be taken care of on his own. He took one last look at his surroundings, before creating another portal and stepping in. 

From that moment forward, time seemed to become irrelevant to Rick. He spent the next stretch of his life going to different dimensions and meeting other versions of himself. Some of them had their own Stan, but had moved on. It was upon this discovery he realized there were many aspects of himself, at least multidimensional aspects that he absolutely hated. Some of the other Ricks had actually gotten together to make a government, which for Rick Theta-1017 was anathema. For a time, he was purposely antagonistic to them, however grew bored with the growing number of Ricks that were turning up in their favor rather than his. Theta-1017 looked in his own dimension for the woman that in many dimension, most dimensions, was his wife, but found it unpalatable to be held down by a family. 

This got Rick to thinking. If there were other Ricks, then there were other Stans. There had to have been Ricks that did not end up with their Stans, or even left their own Stans. If they weren’t using one, why couldn’t he just come up and take it? Why couldn’t he live in that dimension for a while and cultivate a Stan that would suit his purposes? Maybe one day he would find a Stan that was just like his old one. The idea was wholly plausible. He considered this for a few years while he muddied around the universe. Stealing a time crystal was something he had done rather recently, but he didn’t see why he couldn’t just travel back in a dimension where Rick had never met Stanley, and go from there. 

It took a little bit of research. Rick had travelled to several dimensions, scoping out a good dimension as to which Rick would make it the easiest for him. He chose a rather demure Rick, one who had never even met Stanley, one who was happily married, and lived a relatively quiet lifestyle. (Rick couldn’t believe he was able to find a version of himself, but there were infinite possibilities and infinite timelines.) Settling in the dimension of Alpha-Kappa 0605, Rick knew the best way to collect his Stan would be to gain his trust slowly. He felt the best way was to get him fresh from Glass Shard Beach. Though he was now considerably older than Stan at this point in time, he figured he could use this to his advantage. Establishing himself there in that dimension, he was able to secure cheap housing, no questions asked, and shlep around the town, scoping the younger man out until he got a routine and pattern of behavior down. After a couple of weeks of this, one evening Rick decided to finally make his move, and turn his hard work into a reality. 

Stan sat on the curb a few blocks down from the bar he was just kicked out of. What he really wanted was for something to warm him up. It wasn’t his age that was the problem, but the fact that he couldn’t pay. Staying at Glass Shard Beach after getting kicked out may have been a bit of a mistake. He didn’t want to leave the area, what if Ford wanted to reconcile? There was still a lingering hope that his father would allow him to come home. Instead of working hard to prove Filbrick wrong, it seemed that the trouble he was causing around town was only proving him right. Sniffing, he kicked at a can lying about a foot away from him, and rubbed his cheek where security had hit him. He exhaled deeply, like one does when they are trying to keep themselves from crying. Stopping with a muted thud, the can he kicked away had hit something.

“Hey.”

Looking up, Stan placed his hands on his knees, gripping tight. He noticed a tall man standing in the direction of where he kicked the can. He was significantly older than his seventeen-year-old self, maybe in his thirties? Stan squinted in an effort to determine whether or not he knew this stranger. There was never a man that he’d seen like this in Glass Shard. “Hello?” his voice shuddered in his throat.

“I-i-is this what the cool kids are doing these days?” the stranger walked forward, his gaze intensely boring into Stan, absolutely intent on continuing contact. “M-mind if I sit down?” The man sounded like he had been drinking, and even though Stan did not give any permission to sit down, he did so anyway. He was rather tall and thin; his hair, slicked back, was a bluish-grey. How old was this guy? He still looked young, just unnatural. Stan watched as this stranger pulled a cigarette from behind his ear, and reached for a lighter in his pocket, “Cigarette?” he held the pack out to Stan. 

Stan, although resentful that he was initially called a kid, appreciated the other man treating him like an adult rather than a nuisance. He took a cigarette from the back and let it hang from his lips. Looking to the man, he waited to see if the man would light it for him. Stan never really smoked a cigarette before, he had tried a couple of times, but he didn’t want to look like a chump in front of this interesting stranger. 

The man appeared to pick up on Stan’s body language, “Wanna…” he looked away for a moment and then back at Stan to see if he could take his mind off his insecurity, “Wanna...see a trick?” Once again, the man didn’t wait for him to answer, and reached out with the lighter, bringing his fingers close to the wheel. Snapping his fingers, it immediately brought the flame to light. While the flame was still lit, he brought his fingers to it, making it vanish, before flicking at where the light should have been and igniting it again. Lifting the flame up to light Stan’s cigarette, he then lifted his own, took a long drag, and pocketed the lighter.

Echoing his appreciation for the simple parlor tricks, Stan took a drag from his own cigarette, and ended up coughing harshly on the acrid smoke. His inexperience brought a smile and small chuckle to the stranger. That smile was infectious, and Stan couldn’t help but smile back at him. He felt like he could trust this man, even though he barely knew him. 

“Take it easy,” he let the last word get wrapped up in a chuckle, “Wh-what’s your name, kid?”

Stan bristled at the word, “Stanley,” he wanted to leave it at that, but then quickly asked, “Who are you? Why are you talking to me?” the bars weren’t closed yet, they were packed. Rick could walk into any one of them and speak to someone his own age.

At first, the stranger was reluctant to say anything. He rubbed his palm against the back of his neck and puffed on his cigarette in thought. Smiling again, he placed a hand on Stan’s shoulder. The younger man was close to standing up and leaving, but remained where he sat, “Call me Rick,” he murmured, “As for wh-why am I here?” he shrugged, the jacket on his shoulders heaving up on his thin frame. Rick let the hand on Stan’s shoulder slide slowly down his arm and then back into his lap, “You looked like you could use some company,” he looked him up and down, “Probably a new set of clothes,” he leaned over a little to sniff, “and a shower.” 

Stan shuddered at the sudden flooding of human contact. A blush, soft pink, spread across his cheeks. Flustered at the gentle digs, he responded by swatting Rick away, “I’m not a child, I’ll take care of it later.”

Rick smirked, shifting in his spot to angle his knees toward Stan, “Really, because those sweat stains look, wh-what, three weeks old? Unless that’s some new type of fashion statement...Do you even have a place to stay? Little young to be hanging out near the bars on a school night.” 

“Like I need my mom to tell me when to go to bed,” Stan placed his hands on the sidewalk in an effort to get up, “I’ve got my car, I’m my own man.”

“That’s where you live? In your car?”

“It’s not so bad it-”

“Why don’t y-you come with me-I-I-I’ve got a place,” he motioned vaguely past an alley, “You can stay there for the night, and you can at least clean yourself up, I mean Jesus. Do you go to school like that?”

Stan grew uneasy from the man’s concern, “I don’t think I should - it’s okay, sir.”

Rick’s smirk fell, and he suddenly looked brusque and serious, “Don’t be stupid, kid,” he stood up, “Last offer,” he held out his hand, “y-you’re really gonna pass up a shower and a bed for this,” he motioned toward the drizzle and darkness, “this lovely scenery to view from your car?”

A bed and a shower sounded excellent, but Stan wasn’t sure he understood where Rick’s angle was. No such thing as a free meal, right? Declining Rick’s hand to stand up, he pulled himself up on his own. Rick rolled his eyes and motioned toward a side street, “Let’s go,” Stan could feel his legs shaking in nervous anticipation.

Rick babbled on for a while about what he was doing there. That he was pretty new in town and heard that Glass Shard Beach was a pretty cheap place to set up shop. He kept his energy up, beckoning Stan to lighten up just a little bit before they got to the apartment. This Stanley was too handsome to be so sullen. He kept distant, yet physical contact; a gentle touch on the arm there, an encouraging nudge here. Stan wondered how Rick looked so pleasant and cheerful. Clearly he had some run-ins before; he was dotted with cuts and scrapes, and he made a mental note of the outline of a once-deep, dying bruise on his jaw. His weathered appearance contradicted his lust for life and genial tone.

The way this man was speaking to him reminded him of warnings his father gave him. To stay away from the men who were overtly friendly. That when a man looks at you a certain way, to leave or fight. Stanley got a queer feeling from this man, but since he was so incredibly burnt by his own father, and on the cusp of leaving town as it is, he decided to follow him. Pulling his shoulders back, cigarette hanging limp at his lips, even though he barely took a hit from it, he puffed out his chest and slipped down the alleyway with Rick. If this would be one last attempt to make his dad mad, he might as well do it. Who needed them anyway? This guy treated him nicer than his flesh-and-blood relatives. 

Meanwhile, Rick was close to having a heart attack. Was Stanley this easy to get to come home when they had met before? Not nearly so. All he had to do was wear a leather jacket, smoke some cigarettes, and act concerned, and suddenly Stanley was like putty. The apartment he had rented out was so small and barely furnished. Rick was wondering now if he thought this through properly. Although internally screaming in his head, he kept a cool facade holding the door of the apartment building open for Stan. The teen didn’t seem to mind the water-damaged walls, flickering lights, of the fact that Rick’s apartment was essentially a mattress on the floor, some clothing, important equipment in the closet which remained unseen, and plenty of alcohol in a dilapidated kitchenette. To Stan, it felt homey. “Have a seat,” Rick grunted, and walked over to the closet for some clean clothes, “There’s a shower down the hall i-i-if you want one-euuuuuugh later.” He cracked open a beer for himself, looked down, and then offered it to Stan.

Stan felt a little tough. “Thanks,” he nodded, and began to slug the booze down. It filled his stomach and warmed him up. It was something he was already incredibly thankful for.

Rick was never this accommodating to anyone. Even when he initially met his first Stan, he was never this kind. He felt compelled to keep this one, to keep him where he couldn’t lose him. If that meant that he would have to keep tabs on Stanley at a near constant, then he would. He wasn’t going to have another Stan Pines ripped from him, he would be certain of that. Rick thought back to the last moment of quiet they had together, when Stan stated that the time he had alone from his family in the beginning before they met was a time that facilitated his independence. Rick wasn’t so sure he wanted this Stanley to be so independent. Maybe this Stan would listen to him a little bit more. Cracking open his own beer and downing it quickly (much to the marvel of Stan), he sat down on the bed. Stanley was still standing around awkwardly, looking around the one-room apartment, “It’s not much, but -”

“I like it,” Stan smiled, “You get to be your own person.”

“It’s a pretty nice dig, yeah...I can go as I please.”

Stan finally sat down, and laid himself back so that he could rest his elbows on the bed, but wasn’t fully lying down, “It must be nice,” he shuffled his feet and took another sip from his beer, “feeling like your own person.”

Rick started to feel an awkward tugging in his chest. Looking off to the side, he continued his clothing search reaching in the closet pull out whatever clothes he had that would fit Stan. He threw a few things on the bed, “These clothes should fit -- I dunno...It can get lonely.”

Stan was silent. He rubbed his thumbs nervously on the can. Lonely was an understatement. He had no home, he had a car, and all this freedom, but he still felt trapped and alone. A shuddering sigh indicated to Rick that this was beginning to weigh down on the younger man. Rick moved to the bed, sitting a small distance away. Stan shot a glance at him, “If you come and go as you please…” he trailed off, remained silent for a few moments, took another sip of his beer, and restarted, “If you come and go as you please, do you think, I dunno, maybe I could have a key, and just visit once in awhile?”

Rick attempted to control his excitement. His lips curled into a grin, but Stan was too busy looking at his beer can to see the microexpression form, “You can...you can stay here if y-y-you’d like. Y-you kn-ooo-w, until you get a place of your own.”

Stan was stunned. He looked over to this kind, enticing stranger. Could he really allow himself to live in squalor with this person? He wasn’t even sure that the name he was given was legitimate. What if he was a criminal? It’s not like he hadn’t dealt with cheats and crooks before. He would just have to sleep with one eye open. That thought was shaken from his head. This man seemed like a person that he could really trust, and he wanted to. He felt compelled to, “Only until I can get my own place.”

“Right.”

From that moment onward, the two were inseparable. Rick enjoyed the youthful attitude that this younger Stanley provided, even though his hubris and inexperience got them into a lot of trouble. This youthful attitude also came with a youthful body-Rick intensely enjoyed what could be considered now his new boy toy. Things were nice, initially. Rick didn’t feel the need to berate him, just show him the wonders of a widening world. They could scam the best of them, even though it didn’t matter what dimension Rick was in, Stan seemed to have a penchant for getting kicked out of states. After a while of this, it appeared that Stanley was becoming complacent. Rick also noticed that during longer stints in this time stream, anomalies would occur that made it difficult to stay in the stream unnoticed. To normalize time in his dimension and his new Stanley’s, he would leave on stints, sometimes without notice.The longer he stayed in that dimension, the longer he would have to stay out. 

It placed significant strain the relationship, and once they were on less friendly terms, he conjured up a story about meeting a woman and thinking of getting married, settling down. Though Stan seemed fine with this, and as he progressed in age, the same Stanley characteristics existed, but he was not the Stan Rick had known. This made Rick incredibly resentful; he felt he was too soft, too complacent, and too easily influenced. Since he had spent so much time with this new Stan, he felt compelled to stay. It was also nice having his brain waves to counteract his own genius ones, which was finding that if he kept Stan in some form of emotional of physical pain, he was able to get away from those in the multiverse looking for him. 

Their relationship had deteriorated through the years; Rick’s actions became more erratic toward Stan. At some points, he wasn’t even sure what he was doing with this one. There was nearly no resemblance toward his own Stan once they had reached the point in time where his original Stan had died. This didn’t stop Rick’s compulsive need to have this one on his own. He had past the point in time where he could meet the woman that the other Ricks had married. There was no child, he had no Beth. This Rick of Theta-1017 was incredibly alone, and he knew that it was something he would have to stick with for the rest of his life. Once something was considered in his possession, he wasn’t about to let it go. Naturally, on their latest visit, when Stanley stated he wanted to visit his brother, and that he would be located in one sport for a while, Rick desperately wanted to go with him. He wanted to keep Stan there, to visit him when he pleased, and to use him for his purposes. So instead of having to do a bunch of extra legwork to figure out where Stan would be at any point in time in this particularly dimension, Rick begrudgingly agreed to go along with Stan on this road trip. Just once. Then maybe he would have something constant for a while. Maybe this Stan would mellow out, but Rick was on his last nerve and had nothing to lose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YEAAAAAAAAH YOU MADE IT! What a trip! I'm sure it was confusing, to which I apologize!
> 
> DO NOT WORRY. I will -not- be writing about past T-1017 Stan anymore. We're going to be moving onward to our regularly scheduled programming right quick. I will be writing one one-off of young Stan and T-1017, but that will be a completely different spin-off that has no bearing on this story whatsoever.
> 
> I just wanted you to know how T-1017 Rick got to this dimension and why he seems to "hate" Stan so very ding-dang much.


End file.
